


Son Of A Lost Country

by emmswint



Series: Caught Between a Spark and Lightning [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempt at a Platonic Relationship, Balance in the World is Everything, Bullying, Character Death(s), Clumsy Stiles Stilinski, Cuddling & Snuggling, Elements of Horror, Elements of fantasy, F/F, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jealous Derek, Jordan Parrish is Not Exactly Human, Kid!Kira, Leukemia, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Protective Derek Hale, Protective Sheriff Stilinski, Scott is a Good Friend, Spark!Stiles, Stiles Has Nightmares, Supernatural Elements, The Nemeton - Freeform, Unhealthy Weight Loss, Very Slow Build Derek/Stiles, Writer is playing with slavic mythology, a little bit of Stiles/Jordan Parrish, names have power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:20:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7400425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmswint/pseuds/emmswint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has to learn how to use his powers without losing himself and if that isn't enough trouble already, someone else seems to have taken a sudden interest in him as well. But are they friend or foe? Who can he really trust when everyone seems to be after his power?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Roots: Life Is Full Of Questions

**Part I: Roots**

 

 _"Don't you want to be alive before you die?"_  
-Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

 

 _"I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions."_  
-Augusten Purroughs, Magical Thinking: True Stories

 

 _"One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth the doing is what we do for others."_  
-Lewis Carrol

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Life was still pretty confusing, all things considered. 

Not that Stiles had expected anything different. After finding out that he was a spark - someone with the ability to create sparks - and realizing that there was more to his past than he had previously been aware of, it was really no surprise that he now had more questions than ever. 

Deaton hadn't been all that helpful with answering them, as was expected. It was still a disappointment. The vet had only been able to give him a bunch of old scripts that merely contained _theories_ about his kind. 

All he gathered from them, though, was the fact that he was still considered human and also apparently very rare. So rare even that his existence had been only a myth until now. 

If only he still had the book to give him answers! 

Sometimes, Stiles missed it as if it had been a person which he knew was ridiculous. He had done the right thing by giving it up because if he hadn't, the cult would have been able to take his power away from him. All just because he had written his full name in it. And because it had contained two powerful sparks; his own and his mother's. 

But, as his past had revealed to him, his mother's powers hadn't been her own anymore. Someone had stolen it from her, had managed to loosen her grip on her power so they could grasp it for themselves. 

It was one of the many dangers that came with being a spark. 

The possibility to lose control, to become a puppet for someone else. 

A possibility that had nearly come true for Stiles - that had been his mother's fate - and so he was still afraid of it. 

For the first time in his life, Stiles was grateful for the number of complicated names he had been blessed with. He knew now that they weren't a curse, they were a precaution. 

The man who had robbed his mom of her power and had tried to do the same to him might still be out there and he had one of Stiles' names. That was a frightening prospect that Stiles tried not to dwell on at the moment. If he were to talk about it, his dad would just go on a hunt for the man; even if he believed the enemy dead, he probably would dig up his body just to ease Stiles' worries. Stiles knew his dad would go to great lengths just to make sure Stiles was safe, not caring that he'd probably endanger himself and his career in the process. 

And so he kept his fear to himself. 

There were plenty of other things to worry about, anyway. 

Like his inability to keep the sparks in control. 

Since he had unlocked his full potential, it was a constant battle for control for him. One time, he just sneezed and a bunch of sparks emitted from him and flew around wildly, doing whatever the hell they wanted to. 

It had taken him three hours to retrieve every single one of them, involving various ridiculous attempts at persuasion, him hobbling around with the splint on his leg to catch them and the pack laughing so much, they were rolling around on the floor. 

Again, Deaton wasn't of much help. 

He just advised Stiles to take up meditation and heighten his awareness of the sparks. Concentration exercises couldn't hurt, either, considering his ADHD. 

A cheap guidebook to success could have given him similar advice, really. 

So, Stiles had been forced to participate in Malia's training, since they basically had the same problem with the only difference that she turned furry and he emitted sparks like a sparkler on a birthday cake when losing control. 

Only, Malia was already various classes better than him and nearly at the stage where she was considered ready for society. 

He on the other hand just about managed to retrieve the sparks a bit faster everytime he lost control of them. Not really all that great of an achievement in comparison. 

To his defense, he was handicapped by the splint and his still healing broken leg. He had finally gotten rid of the crutches but he still moved around like a pirate with a wooden leg. 

Not that Derek showed him any leniency because of his injury. If anything, he was even harsher because of it since it would make it harder for Stiles to get away should he find himself in a dangerous situation. 

The alpha was as merciless as ever. 

The only consolation was that he wasn't forced to participate in the physical part of the training. Well, he had to do his stretches and all the other exercises his doctors had recommended in order to speed up his recovery. It was also supposed to prepare him for physical therapy which he would need to undergo once the splint was off. He didn't mind that so much, though. All that mattered was that he was spared from the more strenuous activities; so no suicide runs for him for the time being. 

The most annoying thing about the injury, though, had to be that everybody used it as an excuse for their overprotective behavior. His dad used it when Stiles complained about the fact that the man wanted daily updates on how he was feeling. Derek used it when he helped Stiles climb the stairs or with whatever else he was about to do that even _might_ constitute as physically challenging for the time being. 

It wouldn't be so bad if his dad and the pack wouldn't be in cahoots with each other about the whole thing. Ever since his dad had found out about werewolves and had made sure that they wouldn't harm him or any other innocent person, he and Peter had come to the agreement that Stiles should spend the nights his dad was out on patrol at the Hales, just for the remaining time of his restricted mobility. 

Which basically meant that Stiles couldn't be left alone without a babysitter. At least, that was how the teenager himself viewed the situation. 

Apparently, his say in the matter was completely void since he couldn't be trusted with his own safety. Whenever he wanted to contradict that statement, someone usually brought up the incident that had put him in that predicament in the first place and sufficiently managed to shut him up. 

"Focus, Stiles." 

Stiles suppressed a groan of annoyance at the command. How could he be blamed for getting sidetracked? Sitting on the porch doing nothing was boring! 

"I'm bored." 

"You're lazy, that's what you are," Malia chimed in from somewhere to his right. She was supposed to do her daily circuit training but he guessed that she was just as eager to finish it as he was to keep concentrating. 

"Nope, pretty sure I meant bored. Because this is boring. Mindnumbingly boring. Tedious. Dull. Dreary. Bland. Tiresome. It's a snoozefest. It's-" 

"We get the gist of it," Derek interrupted, glaring at him. 

Right in front of Stiles was the task that he was supposed to be concentrating on. The sparks were forming a tower as stable as one built of cards which was why it was wobbling slightly. He was supposed to keep it standing by keeping in control of every single spark. Should he lose his focus and one spark escaped, the whole tower would collapse. 

Stiles couldn't really see the point of that exercise, though. 

"Is this supposed to make me a secret weapon if a game tournament breaks out and I'm the final contestant for a game of Jenga? Does this mean you would vote me in your team, just because of this? Clever plan, sourwolf. We could totally win that. Are you planning a board game party that I don't know about yet?" Stiles said, his gaze on the tower, trying to free one spark without causing the whole thing to collapse. 

He was so focused on that one spark, though, that all the others took the opportunity for a rebellion and just fled the structure of the tower. They all burst forward in one big swoop, nearly knocking him backward. 

In an effort to regain his balance, Stiles flailed wildly, accidently slapping the alpha in the face in the process. 

"Sorry?" Stiles grimaced, following the movements of the sparks out of the corner of his eye. They were making their way towards the small wooden table on the porch, lifting it in the air effortlessly. 

"Put that down, guys," he commanded, trying to sound as authoritative as possible. He lifted his hand and slowly let it sink again. 

To his surprise, the sparks followed the gesture and put the table down just as softly as his hand had motioned them to. They coordinated perfectly with his movements. 

Derek was also watching the spectacle with slight admiration in his gaze. Maybe a more hands-on approach was the solution here. After all, Stiles had never been one for keeping still for a certain period of time. 

"See! It worked!" the teenager cried out in victory, 

Before he was able to stop himself, he pumped his fist in the air. Still under his command, the sparks followed the movement, causing the table to get thrown in the air again. In reaction to that, Stiles quickly retrieved his hand, staring wide-eyed at the table that now was about to crash into him. 

The impact never happened. An arm quickly wrapped around his waist and pulled him back and out of the way. The table crashed instead into the wooden railing of the porch, broke through it and toppled into the grass. 

All that had happened so quickly that Stiles was a little dizzy, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He couldn't believe that he had been the one who had destroyed a table and a part of a wooden railing without even touching any of them. 

"Are you alright?" Derek asked, already turning him around by his shoulders to examine him. But not even a splinter of wood had managed to scratch him. The alpha's reaction time was on point. 

Stiles couldn't look away from the damage he had caused. He hadn't even meant to destroy something but still. That he was able to do that was a shocking discovery. Until now he had never used the sparks for destruction, hadn't even known they had the ability to lift things. 

"Stiles," Derek said. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly in concern. 

"I'm fine," Stiles answered, though he wasn't exactly sure if that statement was true. He felt a little hollow. Maybe that didn't exactly constitute as 'fine'. 

"Malia?" Derek called out, sounding calm. She was supposed to be somewhere in the vicinity of where the table had fallen into the grass. He probably wanted to make sure that she hadn't gotten harmed either. The thought that he might have injured the girl made Stiles sick to his stomach. 

The tapping of paws on the ground alerted them to her arrival. She stood in front of the steps in her coyote form, her head cocked questioningly to the side with her tongue hanging out as she panted. She must have been running around. Next to her appeared her playmate that was probably the reason why she was so out of breath. Burly - the sly fox - looked damn proud of himself. 

They both appeared to be completely unscathed, except for the dirt in their fur coat. 

Stiles felt the relief wash over him like a giant wave. His legs nearly gave out under the force of it but the alpha's grip on him kept him steady. For that reason, Stiles kept his complaints about Derek's overprotectiveness to himself for once. 

Feeling the slight tremors that were coursing through the teen's body, Derek eased him down onto the wooden bench. 

"I thought I told you to finish your circuit training, Malia. As far as I can remember the routine, there isn't an exercise in it that would demand that you change into your full-shift." 

Derek didn't even need to look at her to convey his discontent. It reached her either way and so she still lowered her head in a silent apology. 

The power of an alpha, Stiles guessed. Derek had learned so much from Laura and even Lea over the last few weeks that he was now truly deserving of the respect the title demanded. 

Derek sighed, not able to stay mad at her."Get your clothes and go inside. It's time for a break," he announced then. The were-coyote obeyed immediately. She was probably glad that he didn't want a repeat of the exercises she had failed to complete. 

Now that his playmate was gone, Burly focused his attention on Stiles, jumping onto his lap. Out of habit, Stiles' fingers started to card through his fur, trying to untangle the knots in it and free it from clumps of dirt and mud. The repetitive and familiar motion was soothing to him. 

"Sorry about the railing," the teenager said after a bout of silence. 

"Scott's going to repair it," Derek stated. He was sure that the beta would do it. Scott would have no choice in the matter since Derek would just confront him about him eating his secret stash of animal crackers. It could only be him. Derek had hidden them very well and Scott had the finest nose out of all his betas. Not to mention that the boy practically reeked of guilt every time his eyes met Derek's. 

Curious about the confidence with which Derek had conveyed that statement, Stiles looked up and cocked his eyebrows. Scott wasn't one to rebel against a request like that one but Stiles doubted whether Scott was the right person for the job. 

Boyd would probably be the better choice. That guy could most likely build a rocking chair from scratch without instructions. 

"Training's over for the day," Derek told him. "Next time, we focus on this new ability of yours." 

Stiles almost barked out a cynical laugh at that. New ability? He didn't even know what his old abilities were supposed to be. Everything was new to him. He was basically flying blind here. 

And last time he had just experimented with his powers, it had nearly cost them all their lives. 

"You know, concentrating would be easier after a good night's rest." 

"Oh really. Thanks for the advice, I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Stiles grumbled back, slightly annoyed at the reprimanding tone the alpha had used. He was not a child. He knew that. 

"Could have fooled me." Derek threw Stiles a water bottle even though he didn't really need it. He wasn't the one who had to undergo circuit training put together by the alpha himself. 

He didn't manage to catch it which wasn't all that surprising. Derek really should've known better and the look on Stiles' face told him so as well. 

Just as the teen was about to bend over to get it, the sparks returned. Without any prompting from him, they picked up the water bottle together and kept it floating right in front of his face. It was easy to reach out and simply take it. And they let him. 

"How did you do that?" Derek asked, sitting down next to him. 

Stiles looked thoughtfully at the bottle in his hands. "I have no idea." Burly had jumped off his lap and was making high-pitched howls of happiness as he chased the sparks around. "I could swear that they have a mind of their own sometimes." 

_The spark is a part of you, my dear._

He could still see his mother's words so clearly in his mind, almost as if they had engraved themselves there. 

_Feed your spark._

_You might have already realized that the spark possesses power .... It can only be as powerful as you willed it to be ... It all depends on inner strength ..._

But the line that kept him awake most nights was a simple one. 

_Be careful._

It was the last message he had received from his mom before he had been forced to destroy the book. For a while, he had wondered what had happened to the spark in the book - the one that had belonged to his mother once. It had tried to fulfill the task it had been created for even though it had been controlled by someone else. Maybe whoever had stolen her power hadn't been able to override the will with which his mother had brought it to life. 

He didn't know if the spark was still around, alive to this day because it hadn't fulfilled its purpose completely. 

He liked that thought but couldn't really hold on to it. There were too many doubts about that theory. 

Suddenly aware of how thirsty he was, he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a few gulps of water. It was then that he realized that the bottle had already been opened and had only half its content left in it. Someone had already drunk the other half. 

Not that he minded. He doubted anyone on Hale ground was trying to poison him. 

"Even after having seen them floating around countless times already, I still get amazed every time. I don't think I could ever really get used to them," Derek said suddenly, ripping Stiles out of his thoughts. 

The alpha was sitting with his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward as he was keenly watching the sparks. His eyes were filled with wonder, marking his words as true. 

"Well, knowing so little about them and what they could do, I guess it's only logical that they continue to be a surprise." 

Just like that, the open expression on Derek's face became clouded with disgruntlement. He obviously had expected Stiles to be serious for once. 

"That's not what I mean," he grumbled, now too self-conscious to openly show his amazement. 

"Don't mind me. I'm just bitter over knowing basically nothing about what I am. I didn't mean to drag you down to my level. The two of us together in the pit of despair would mean that all the happiness had gotten sucked out of this world which is not something I'd like to be responsible for." 

A dry smile had spread itself across the werewolf's face. "You know, even people without your abilities struggle with the problem of barely knowing anything about themselves. You're nothing special. Though you're still a bit young to have an existential crisis." 

"You're one to talk!" Stiles huffed in indignation. "I bet you had your first existential crisis before you were even able to walk! You were probably spouting things like _'Why are people so worried about their past and their future when all they really have is the present?'_ and _'Why should I choose the road less traveled by when I don't even know where I'm headed?'_."

He almost got shoved off the bench for his efforts to mimic the alpha's voice. Maybe Derek didn't like the whiny intonation he had added for authenticity. 

He tried to retaliate by shoving back but Derek didn't budge. He could have just as easily tried to shove a wall. Though, the alpha did move then, even if it wasn't because of him. 

Derek stood up from the bench, causing Stiles to nearly topple to the side since he hadn't realized how much he had been leaning on him. 

That subconscious action could be blamed on Stiles' other problem. It wasn't exactly one he worried about, per se, but it still was bothersome. 

The problem was Derek and their new, weird dynamic. 

Ever since the night Stiles had nearly died, they had become closer. Derek's behavior toward him had changed. He was less distant, less guarded around him now. They were actually talking to each other now, the topic of their conversation having nothing to do with pack business even. 

That was definitely a new development. 

But maybe that was expected to happen after what they had been through together. Reliving memories together was perhaps bound to forge some kind of connection between them. 

Sometimes it felt like the red string was still tying them together, even if they couldn't see it. 

In addition to that, Derek was probably the only one who _really_ understood what Stiles was going through at the moment and that was not just because he had been confronted with the darker parts of Stiles' past. If there was someone who knew how it felt to be overwhelmed by suddenly acquired new powers without getting any instructions for them, it was definitely Derek. He had probably felt a lot like Stiles did now when he had become alpha. 

In all honesty, Stiles really liked this new development. 

He liked this softer side of the otherwise stoic and grumpy alpha, liked that he was the one who got to see it. He liked that he was the one who was apparently deserving the honor of being trusted by someone who handled trust like it was the most valuable thing they had to give. 

The real problem lay in reminding himself that even though they might be closer now, they still weren't a couple and he had to respect Derek's wish for a no-strings-attached arrangement just as much as he had to adhere to his own wish for a committed relationship. 

Stiles really couldn't see himself just fooling around with someone he cared about and Derek probably had his reasons too for preferring something casual. No matter for whom, they both shouldn't have to compromise their wishes since that would just end in resentment for the other party. 

So they were at an impasse.

Not that they had _actually_ talked about it but Stiles just assumed that it was an unspoken agreement between the two of them. It was the only logical conclusion, considering that neither of them was willing to drop their expectations of a relationship. They hadn't even kissed since that time in the office, so there really was no doubt in Stiles' mind. Right now, they both wanted different things. Maybe that would change in the future, maybe it wouldn't. 

The point was that Stiles had decided that although the idea of them as a romantic couple was still very much something he desired, he'd rather be by Derek's side as a friend than force him or himself to an agreement that was the exact opposite of what they truly wanted. 

Honestly, Stiles was rather proud of himself for how mature he handled the situation. 

Well, at least, for how he handled it _theoretically_. 

Because actually going through with that resolution was a lot harder than he had imagined. 

"It's getting late. Think you can retrieve them now?" Derek asked. 

"Huh?" 

That earned him a raised brow and a gaze that was both skeptical and amused. "The sparks, Stiles. They're all here right now and I'd rather not chase them through the woods all night. So?" 

Stiles took in a breath and then closed his eyes to envision his flame. Like always, it was a restless source of energy, always in motion, always dancing around in wild movements. It was hard to keep it in control. Sometimes, he was afraid of getting burned. 

But that evening, the flame seemed to be in an agreeable mood and let itself be contained by Stiles' will rather easily. He extended his senses, reaching for the sparks so he could give them the silent command to return. 

It was like a yearning that he had to express, the need to feel completed once again. 

He had to feel what he was missing, picture the exact place where the sparks truly belonged. 

If he had to describe it, it was probably like having to be aware of every single hair on your body so that you could notice if one of them was missing and detect where it may be. Once it was found, you had to imagine it back into place, like that would actually bring it back. 

It was a nearly impossible task. 

But he was getting better at it the more time he spent with the sparks, the more he learned about them and the better he got to know them. 

When every single spark had returned to him, it felt like all the puzzle pieces were falling into place. 

He opened his eyes and found Derek looking at him. 

"10 minutes. That's a new record," he remarked, sounding pleased. Stiles smiled in response. 

The alpha then held his hand out to him in an offer to help him get up. He took it. 

And maybe the touch lasted entirely too long to be strictly platonic. 

_Yep, definitely a problem,_ Stiles thought as he was all too aware of Derek's hand on his back as they went inside. 

***

His life at school offered no real escape from the madness his life had become. It was just a different kind of madness that he was exposed to in the great halls of the prestigious school that was St. Joanna's Academy for Music and Art. 

"I can't believe they were throwing eggs at you!" Cora snarled viciously. She closed the door to the classroom where they were currently taking refuge forcefully behind them. 

Lindsay was standing in front of the mirror wall - they must be in one of the ballet rooms - and inspected mournfully the damage to her clothes and her hair. 

"I can't believe they were throwing eggs at _us_ ," she corrected Cora. "Even if they intended to hit only Stiles, we were victims by proximity. Look at me! This is a nightmare!" 

Cora sent her a glare. 

"I'm not a vain person," Lindsay defended herself instantly. "I'm really not! And I didn't mean that I regret being friends with Stiles - Stiles, you know that I'd choose you a million times over, right? - But this - _this_ ," she gestured to the egg yolk sticking to her shoulder, "is an attack on my dignity! I'm not vain, I'm proud! There's a difference." 

"Don't be a drama queen," Cora said, rolling her eyes. "Stiles took the brunt of the attack. And he's the one on their hit list. And why? All because of the damn new rule that forbids having anything sweet or unhealthy on school grounds! It's ridiculous!" 

"Well, I also suspect that Vincent is really pissed that I chose Stiles instead of him. He hates losing. He has the most influence in this school so he's probably behind this," Lindsay said. 

"I've always hated that prick," Cora growled darkly. "You know, if he wants war then he can have it! Hell if I just take that treatment! I won't stand for -" 

She interrupted herself as she noticed that Stiles hadn't said a single word since they had entered the ballet room. He was just staring at the mirror, his eyes widened. There was a look of deep concentration with a hint of disbelief on his face. 

"Stiles?" Cora tapped him on the shoulder, causing the boy to jump in surprise. "What's the matter?" 

Stiles shook his head quickly to free himself from the thoughts that had distracted him from the present. He turned his back to the mirror brusquely and rubbed a hand over his eyes. 

"Nothing. I think I have egg yolk in my eyes or something," he explained. 

Cora didn't look completely convinced but she let it go for now. 

They tried to get the worst off of their clothes so they could head for their next class. 

Before they left, though, Stiles paused to take a look at himself in the mirror once more. 

This time, his reflection was no longer blurry and the pale scars on his palm were their usual silver color instead of black. 

He must have imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the second story!


	2. Return to Relative Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wants to leave the ugly events of the past (recent and older) behind him but he isn't the only one affected by them. He has a worried father on his case, curious classmates and an injury that makes it rather hard to pretend nothing has changed. At least, he finally gets rid off the splint.

"How was your day?" 

The question was much more loaded than that. His dad didn't only ask out of routine, not only because it was the kind thing to do. He was also testing how much Stiles would talk about something personal, he would pay attention to how detailed Stiles was in his describing and what adjectives and adverbs he'd use. 

Every time Stiles heard the question, he felt scrutinized. He wondered if he was a rat in a lab, running through a maze for some elaborate experiment that he'd never be capable of understanding. 

He hated it. 

He felt like he was a charity case, just someone to be pitied. 

Instead of snapping, though, he took in a deep breath and readied a smile. "Fine." 

Burly's gaze was shifting between father and son, his head curiously cocked to the side. 

"Sit down, son," his dad said then, gesturing to their dinner table. Case files were spread out on it, stacked in an order that was not immediately obvious. 

Oh, right. His dad wanted sentences, not just one-word-answers. 

Stiles sighed but obeyed. 

His dad took a seat at the table as well, a frown on his face. 

"Stiles, you know this is not a punishment, right? I just want to know what's going on in your life." 

Yes, Stiles knew that. 

He knew that his dad thought that the teen had trouble dealing with everything that had happened over the past few months. That was completely normal, Stiles supposed. Finding out the truth about his mother's death had been shocking. That his dad had lied to him for years felt like the worst betrayal he could ever face. The battle for control over his powers that made him question whether his mother had been right to call him evil all those years ago haunted him in his dreams. 

But the thing was that Stiles had a harder time with everyone dealing with him like he was made of glass now than he had with all of those things. 

Or at least, he wouldn't be so aware of all the issues if everyone just stopped fussing over him. 

He was so fed up with it, he felt like screaming when someone offered to do something for him. 

"Same old, same old," Stiles replied with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "One would think that my life would be different now but - nope. There's still school, there are still werewolves. So, nothing new." 

His dad's face fell slightly. The wrinkles around his eyes became even more pronounced as he eyed his son. But instead of addressing what bothered him, he just shook his head. "Only you would categorize werewolves as normal." 

Stiles shrugged. Then he eyed the files on the table. "Want my help with that?" 

He wasn't all that interested in them, to be honest, but they offered a nice opportunity to change the topic. 

Sheriff Stilinski swatted his hand away that was already reaching for one of the files. "That's classified. You know that." 

"It was worth a try," Stiles said. Then he got up and picked his backpack up from the floor where he had unheedingly dropped it. "Well, I've got a lot of homework to do. Nice talk, dad." 

His dad huffed out a frustrated sigh. "Sure." 

Stiles felt the semblance of remorse gnawing at his conscience as he turned his back on his dad and went upstairs. He knew that the man was trying. But that couldn't just magically erase the fact that he had lied to him. For years. 

It wasn't like Stiles couldn't understand why his dad had done it. Actually, he would have probably done the same, had he been in the position. And it wasn't like Stiles himself had been upfront with his dad all along. 

Still, the betrayal stung. 

So Stiles decided not to dwell on the topic any longer than he really had to. There was enough on his mind already. 

Before the teenager was able to flee the conversation completely, his dad appeared at the bottom of the stairs, halting him in his steps as he called out to him. 

Stiles turned around with an annoyed "what". 

He tried not to feel guilty at his dad's put off expression. 

"I just wanted to remind you that I'm picking you up from school tomorrow. You have a doctor's appointment, remember?" 

"Oh, yeah," Stiles remembered. "The splint finally comes off. Can't wait. That means I'll get the keys to my baby back, right?" 

Another annoying prospect of the injury was that he wasn't allowed to drive his jeep. Instead, he had been forced to catch a ride with Cora, Peter, his dad or in a few instances Derek. He longed for the freedom that was having his own car and deciding when and where he wanted to go. 

His dad grimaced slightly and sidestepped a concrete answer by replying with, "We'll see. First and foremost, you need to get used to walking without a splint again. Maybe after your first physical therapy session." 

It was not the answer he had wanted to hear but one he had expected. 

"Fine," Stiles sighed. 

Then he and the fox disappeared into his room. The sheriff was left standing there, massaging his temples as he felt a headache coming. 

***

Like all the nights lately, Stiles had trouble falling asleep that night. Not that he actually got a good rest once he did. Sometimes, he could hear his mother yell all the awful things she had said that time at the river when she had tried to drown him. 

' _Don't worry. Once we've rid you off the evil in you, everything will be okay again.'_

Some nights, he was blessed with a dreamless sleep. 

Tonight was, unfortunately, not one of those nights. 

It was not like the nightmares he typically experienced, though. 

His mother didn't make an appearance - not really, at least. She was not more than an echo, a wailing, desperate voice among many. 

In fact, so many people seemed to be screaming and crying, Stiles couldn't even make out what they were saying anymore. 

And that's all he remembered when he woke up somewhere around 3, heart hammering so loudly against his ribcage that he was sure even his neighbors could hear it. 

His hair was sticking to his sweaty body as was his shirt and his pajama pants. Lying in his cooling pool of sweat and feeling the bed sheet sticking to his back was anything but comfortable and so Stiles decided to head to the bathroom. He wet a washcloth to clean himself off of the worst and changed his clothes. 

His eyes were avoiding the mirror as he bent down to splash his face with water. He still couldn't shake off the feeling that his reflection was watching him. 

It was a silly idea, he knew that. And if he should look up, his reflection would indeed meet his gaze. That's just how it was with reflections. 

Still, he felt eyes on him. 

The cold water was supposed to clear his head but all it accomplished was making him aware of how freezing it was. He almost regretted not wearing socks to bed now that his bare feet were forced to touch the cold tiles. 

In an attempt to warm himself, he slung his arms around his middle and hopped from one foot to the other. 

It shouldn't be that cold, even if it was the third of December already. 

Intentionally not sparing even one glance to the mirror, Stiles left the bathroom and went straight to his closet to look for a hoodie and socks. But when he had finally found the items he realized with a start that he wasn't cold anymore. 

Confused, he rested a hand on his forehead, feeling for temperature. As far as he could tell, he wasn't feverish. 

"Weird," he mumbled to himself. 

***

Waiting for his dad, Stiles stood in the parking lot with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He tried to ignore the weird looks from his fellow students who were probably wondering why he didn't drive home already. 

He had been standing there for over 15 minutes after all. 

It must have looked like he had been stood up from an outsider's point of view. 

_'Great,'_ Stiles thought gloomily. _'As if they needed any more fuel to make fun of me.'_

Where was his dad anyway? It wasn't like him to be late, and even less likely that he just forgot about Stiles at all. 

Not even his anger about the situation could cloud over the fact that he was getting worried. 

As various different, horrifying scenarios involving his dad in mortal peril were playing out inside his head, a girl with thick glasses and wild curly hair approached him. She was holding a notepad pressed to her chest and a pen was tucked behind her right ear. Her eyes were gleaming with eagerness as she assessed him. 

"Stiles Stilinski, right?" she asked, though it was clear that she was definitely sure that she had the right person. "I'm Bertha Sinclair and I'm writing for the school paper _'The Saint Joanna Chronicle'_. I hope you're already familiar with it, if not, here's our latest issue," she took a beige-coloured newspaper out of the notebook and handed it to him before she continued talking, "We're a weekly paper and as it is Friday already and I've just got out of our weekly meeting, I wanted to ask for your cooperation with an article about the incident with the cult that died during a sacrifice at the cemetery. It will be the headline of our next issue."

Perplexed that there was actually someone who could talk as fast and incessantly as him, Stiles blinked. 

When he had finally registered what she was asking of him, his stomach churned unpleasantly and his mind got steamrolled by a wave of memories of that night. 

His expression shut off immediately. "Why would you need my cooperation? What could I contribute?" 

She gave him a look that told him that she was calling bullshit on that. "For one, your father was one of the cops investigating the case. Also, there have been rumors about your involvement on that night. Some say you were part of the cult and that's where you got your injuries from. Especially the cuts on your hands have aroused suspicion. Surely, you want to give a statement and contradict those who put blame on you?" 

He clenched his teeth in anger. "No, I don't want to cooperate with you for that article." 

"But this is your only chance to clear your name-" 

"I don't care. Now leave me alone." 

"You should care! Some students here are very influential and could possibly destroy your future but if you cooperate we could-" 

"Wait. Let me think about it." He held up a finger and furrowed his brows in concentration. After a while, he shook his head and said, "Nope, I still don't care. Write whatever you want. It doesn't matter." 

Her eyes narrowed at him, the friendly smile she was wearing before falling off her lips. "Fine, have it your way! Just know that we were considerate enough to hold off on the story until you were better. But you obviously don't know how to appreciate this or someone who is only trying to help you! You'll regret this next week, that I promise you!" 

She then turned on her heels and walked away. 

"Hey, Bertha!" Stiles called out. 

She turned around immediately, the satisfied glint in her eyes conveying that she had hoped that he would change his mind. "Yes?" 

Stiles gave her a wry grin. "You should add a fox to the story. He definitely was the reason that their sacrifice failed. I bet he's the real hero behind all this. Make sure he gets some recognition for this, yeah?" 

Thinking that he was mocking her, she huffed angrily, flipped him off and then proceeded to walk away. She was probably regretting now that she had wasted her precious time on him. 

He was a lost cause. 

As he reflected on how bad his decision might turn out to be and on the possibility that he had just hammered the final nail into the coffin in which his reputation would be buried in, the police cruiser finally pulled into the school parking lot. 

***

His dad kept apologizing to him all the way to the hospital even though Stiles had assured him that it was not a problem. He only calmed down when he told him that a girl had kept him company while he had been waiting which wasn't completely a lie. Bertha had spent some time with him even if she had only been there because she had an agenda and had left after he declined her offer. 

His dad didn't need to know that, though. 

Apparently, there had been a disturbance called in by a very hysterical Mrs. Miller and she requested that most of the deputies immediately came over to her property to secure the situation. She said that it was a matter of urgency, though she didn't give them any details. 

Since Mrs. Miller was an old lady that called the police at least once a week about a noise disturbance or some other reason, Jon Stilinski didn't pay her call too much thought. He did send out the number of deputies that she requested, though, which was about half the staff that was on patrol. 

Stiles laughed at the story, knowing how persistent Mrs. Miller could be in her claims that her life was in danger if they didn't send a man of the law over to her that instance. He also knew that she just scared very easily - could maybe even be classified as paranoid - and that the only thing that gave her the feeling of safety was if a man in a uniform confirmed it to her. 

Jon had once explained to Stiles that Mrs. Miller's husband had been a police officer himself before he had died and that her only son was in the military so she automatically associated men in uniform with safety. 

They talked about similar police calls as they were waiting to be called in the examination room, reminiscing about the most ridiculous cases the police had ever been forced to deal with. 

Stiles enjoyed their talk, glad that they had found a topic that wasn't heavy and didn't evolve around his mental health. He needed the normalcy back. He needed to know that life was going back to the way it should be, new powers and worries aside. 

The bad mood he had been in earlier suddenly vanished and he felt like it was easier to breathe. 

When Dr. Stevens had finally taken off the splint, he was even smiling slightly. The taste of freedom was resting on his tongue, making his fingers tingle slightly. 

He only stopped smiling when he noticed his excitement had sent one spark loose that was now hovering over the doctor's head. Thankfully, it was high enough for the man not to notice. 

"As we've already discussed, the true recovery process is just happening now and you will need to work in order for it to be successful. I took the liberty to make an appointment with our local physical therapist. If you're not happy with your treatment, please contact the hospital so we can look for another physical therapist." 

The doctor was saying all of this in a very monotone voice, not looking up from the clipboard in his hands. Stiles just hoped that he would remain that way until he was able to recollect the spark. 

Why did they have to break free at the most inconvenient moments? It was just his luck, he guessed. 

"If you don't mind, I'd like for you to meet him now so he can assess your case and determine the perfect treatment for you." 

"No, I don't mind at all. Are you going to get him? I think you should, you know. The hospital is huge. We don't want him to get lost, right?" Stiles said hurriedly, keeping an eye on the spark. He couldn't just outright stare at it without raising suspicion, though. 

Dr. Stevens raised his eyebrows at him but did otherwise not react. He wasn't one to chit-chat and only really talked about Stiles' injury with him. Detached doctors had their advantages every once in a while. 

"Well, he is new," the man admitted, sounding a little surprised that Stiles seemed to know about that as well. "I was just about to tell you that I'd send him in here in a few minutes." 

His expression was stunned as he looked at the teenager. 

"Uh, sure. Don't wait on my account. I can be left alone for a few minutes. I even promise not to steal anything," Stiles assured the doctor, trying for a trustworthy smile. 

The man shook his head at him, looking a little bemused. Then he warned Stiles that stealing something wasn't worth the trouble with a glare before he left. 

Stiles heaved out a relieved sigh and hopped down the treatment couch. Walking on two legs again hadn't posed to be a challenge in his mind but it did turn out that his injured leg wasn't strong enough to support his weight. His knee gave out and he fell to the floor. 

Cursing under his breath, Stiles tried to get up again. This time, he wouldn't put too much weight on his left leg.

He managed to stand on wobbly feet, just now registering the stinging of his leg. It felt like a bad cramp, only worse. 

"You'll just have to come to me then," he whispered to the spark, already concentrating on bringing it back. The pain kept him from getting distracted and so he actually managed to retrieve the spark before the door opened again. 

Stiles had expected a man that would be around the same age as Dr. Stevens, gray and sparse hair and glasses and all. The man standing before him looked nothing like that, though. 

He was young - perhaps only a few years older than himself - and tall, his build lithe but athletic. He had short dirty blond hair and friendly green eyes. The smile on his lips was slightly crooked but charming. 

All in all, he was undeniably attractive. 

And Stiles was standing on wobbly knees, drops of sweat gathering on his brow and his hand outstretched like he was reciting the famous line from 'Hamlet' without the skull, looking like a complete idiot. Fantastic first impression. 

The professional smile on the other man's face turned into a grin. 

"Stiles Stilinski, I presume?" he asked. Stiles managed to nod as he quickly retracted his hand. "I'm Jordan Parrish, the physical therapist Dr. Stevens was going to introduce you to. It's nice to meet you." 

Jordan Parrish then walked over to him and reached out his hand for him to shake. Stiles reciprocated the handshake with hasty movements, wishing he could have had an opportunity to wipe the sweat off of his face before they were standing in front of each other. 

"Uh, it's nice to meet you too, Mr. Parrish." 

The man revealed handsome dimples as his smile widened. "Call me Jordan, please." 

"Stiles." 

The man raised his eyebrows, looking amused. "Your case is quite an interesting one, Stiles. Your bone was shattered into many little splinters but they managed to reconstruct it quite nicely. Your latest X-rays are nearly identical to the ones before your accident. You're a prime example of the marvelous things medicine has already accomplished." 

Stiles had been told many times how lucky he was that his injury wasn't as bad or as long-lasting than it could have been. 

"I always try to merely fall into easily reconstructible puzzle pieces when I'm breaking. No biggie." 

Jordan laughed. "You have to teach your ways to others, then." He then walked over to the desk and took out a form from one of the drawers. "Your problem is not the bone, though. It's the damaged muscles and the scar tissue that's already forming. It's restricting your mobility and will only get worse if you don't warm up and stretch your muscles. I think a meeting once a week should suffice. Depending on your progress, you might be able to almost walk completely normal again." 

Stiles swallowed heavily. He hated the word _almost_ and _might_. 

Jordan filled out the form and wrote his assessment of Stiles' medical condition down. 

"But I could also be limping heavily for the rest of my life," Stiles finished with a dry throat. 

Jordan looked up from the form, his eyes taking on an empathic expression. "Well, yes, if you give up on yourself, that will certainly be in your future. You see, Stiles, what many people don't understand is that our bodies are very complex, always functioning machines that run without any help. But they require care. Otherwise, they will shut down sooner or later. Your body is not defective by any means just because it has to adapt to a different mechanism now." 

"So you're basically here to install a new program?" 

"Hmm," Jordan said, standing up from his place at the desk to give him a once-over. "Can you please walk a few steps? You can take your time." 

Since Stiles already knew that shifting too much weight on his injured leg wasn't a good idea, he took a small step forward with the healthy one, only dragging the other one after him. He had to look so stupid but it was the safest way to move forward that he had found yet. 

Jordan nodded, looking pleased. "I imagine that you don't want to walk like the hunchback assistant of Dracula for the rest of your life. At least, I hope so. It certainly doesn't suit you." 

Stiles' eyes widened for a second, then his face scrunched up in thought about whether he had really just received a compliment or not. 

Why did this man have to be so charming, yet so unobtrusive? No one should be that authentically amiable without seeming obnoxious. 

"Is Friday okay for you? Let's say, around six o'clock?" 

"Uh, I think so. Where?" 

Jordan grabbed a post-it note and quickly wrote an address on it. He also scribbled down his number below. "If you can't make it, please call me." He handed Stiles the note and smiled. 

"Am I allowed to drive now?" he asked then because that was the question that he had been itching to ask since he had gotten the splint off. 

"Well, I'm afraid that it is still too early to tell. We'll see about that after our first session," Jordan answered sympathetically. "Sorry. I know that sucks. What sucks even more is this." 

He retrieved a wooden cane from the supply closet and pressed it into Stiles' unwilling hand. 

"Seriously?" Stiles groaned. 

"It's only for a while," Jordan assured him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. They were nearly the same height. "After a day of being on your feet, I'm sure you'll be thankful for it. And it still looks cooler than crutches or a walker." 

Stiles sighed in defeat, not knowing how to argue that point. 

"There's also something else," Jordan announced. This time, he handed Stiles a small jar. "It's ointment for your muscles. Apply it every night before you go to bed and all pain and soreness should evaporate. It smells a little bad but it works." 

Stiles eyed the jar skeptically, sure that Jordan exaggerated its effect. He had been using ointment ever since he was a little kid and knew that it just soothed the pain. It didn't get rid of it like some kind of magic potion. 

He thanked the man, anyway and then they said their goodbyes. 

On the way home, the sheriff updated Stiles on the call from Mrs. Miller, explaining that it had only been her new neighbors who had moved in not so long ago that were making her worried. She claimed that their kid was possessed by the devil and was glowing menacingly. 

"Well, was she? Glowing, I mean?" Stiles asked. 

His dad looked amused. "Not as far as my deputies could tell when they met the small family." 

But there was still the possibility that they were indeed supernatural. It wouldn't surprise Stiles. Not in this town. 

_Time's going to tell_ , Stiles thought. And if there really was some new supernatural entity in their town, the pack would soon enough find out. It was their territory, after all. Newcomers had to pay a visit to the pack Alpha eventually if they wanted to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, 
> 
> as I've already announced in the last story, this one is going to be darker than the previous one. There will be some pretty scary stuff in it that sometimes keeps me awake at night because I'm so scared. It's not going to dive too deep into the horror genre but it will scratch on its surface. So if you're easily scared, please always heed the warinings. I'll be sure to partition the really scary scenes from the story so you 'll be able to skip them. Don't cause yourself nightmares over this. If you enjoy getting creeped out, though, I hope you'll enjoy those parts of the story. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next chapter!


	3. Back On Your Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles puts to test how effective the ointment given to him by Jordan truly is, Jackson unwillingly gets caught up in the experiment and Derek gets an opportunity to show off his first-aid skills.

Stiles had thought that getting rid of the splint meant that he wouldn't look like an invalid anymore but he was wrong. It took him a whole day to even learn how to use his left leg again but even then he wasn't able to completely rely on it holding his weight. 

So even though he had laughed at the supposedly magical healing powers of the ointment Jordan had given him, he applied it religiously every night before he went to bed. To his amazement, the pain and soreness really did vanish. His leg didn't hurt now as much as it just felt stiff. 

That shouldn't really be possible. The doctors had told him that pain was unavoidable. Since he had applied the ointment for the first time, though, he hadn't been feeling any of it anymore. 

Maybe he really was a poster patient that demonstrated how far medicine had come. 

"It smells weird," Scott commented the first time he smelled it on Stiles. 

Stiles assisted with fixing the railing he had destroyed, not so much because he felt guilty but because it was a project between him and Scott and he really needed one of those. 

"Like something drooled on you," Isaac added. 

And Isaac. A project between him, Scott and Isaac. Because it seemed that Scott couldn't do anything without Isaac anymore. Ever since Scott and Allison had changed their relationship status to "it's complicated" Isaac had become Scott's shadow. He had clung himself as tightly to Scott as he had to the idea that he now had a chance with him. 

"You know what's even weirder?" Stiles asked, putting away the hammer he was needlessly holding. He wasn't doing any of the work anyway. "The scar left from the surgery. It looks like it's over a year old already." 

Scott cursed quietly as he hit his thumb again, throwing away his own hammer that had dared to hurt him, and sucked on the bruised digit. He was lucky his bruises faded quickly or else all his fingers on his left hand would be blue and purple by now. 

"Well, what ingredients are in it?" Isaac asked while petting Scott sympathetically on the shoulder. "What does the label say?" 

"It doesn't have one. Actually, it looks kind of homemade." 

"The hell?!" Scott exclaimed. "Let me see it! Do you have it with you?" 

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yes, Scott. I always carry around my whole medicine cabinet. Do you need a pill of Adderall too?" 

Both Scott and Isaac looked at him with a grim expression, not falling for it. 

"Fine," Stiles sighed. Then he went to rummage around in his backpack until he found the small jar with the blue lid. Scott and Isaac abandoned their work and gathered around Stiles, eyeing the jar curiously. 

When opened. a slimy, silvery substance was revealed. 

Scott actually dared to dip one finger in it, scooping out a glob of the ointment. 

"Oh, wow, that tingles. But not in a bad way." 

With furrowed brows, Isaac did the same. He held up his finger, the tip coated in the silver colored ointment. He seemed to wait for something. When his frown deepened, it was clear that whatever he had expected to happen hadn't happened. "No, it doesn't. At least, I don't feel it." 

Alarmed, Scott used his other hand and tried it again. 

"Oh my god. You're right! But hey, my other hand does still tingle a little bit! Why?" 

While the three of them were staring at Scott's hands like he was about to do a magic trick that they didn't want to miss, the answer struck Stiles suddenly. 

"Because while the finger on your left hand is hurt, the one on the right isn't," Stiles said in amazement. "Maybe it really has magical healing powers." 

"And how do we test that theory? Scott and I heal too quickly on our own." 

Stiles rolled his eyes and pushed up the sleeve of his hoodie to his elbow. "It's just a little sacrifice for a man but a big step for science. So, one of you needs to get their claws out and scratch me." 

Isaac's eyes were so wide, they were nearly bulging out of his head. He looked scandalized at the prospect of hurting Stiles. 

"You're kidding, right? Do you know what'll happen to us if someone was to come out now? Peter will claw out my eyes, probably. And Malia..." 

Just as he said that, he began scanning the area hastily for another member of their pack as if he expected that the mere mention of their name would make them appear. 

"Use your hearing. You'd know if they were near. Don't be such a coward. It's for science, Isaac! Just think if Armstrong had been hesitant. He didn't say _"Oh no, I can't go outside on the moon! It's a little moist outside and I forgot to use my extra-strong hairspray today! I can't ruin my hair-style for this!"_ No, he didn't say that. Instead, he went outside and explored!" 

"Can it be moist in space?" 

Both Stiles and Isaac looked at Scott like they couldn't believe he had really just asked that question. Their judgemental expressions were causing him to blush slightly, and so he cleared his throat and volunteered for the task Isaac was still hesitant to agree to. 

Just so Isaac wouldn't worry too much, Stiles conjured up a few sparks that were supposed to do the work for them so no one would get suspicious at the lack of hammering noises. 

Stiles had been training to lift things for a week now, with Derek watching over him so he wouldn't destroy something else or hurt himself. 

Moving around objects was no problem for him anymore. He just needed to be aware of what the sparks were doing or else they would just act on their own accord. 

"Are you sure they can do this? Calcifer one and two can't even hit the nail," Isaac noted critically, never letting the sparks out of his sight. 

The two hammers were floating in the air as if a ghost was holding them. One other spark was in charge of getting the nails, while another was holding up the wood. As Isaac had mentioned, the hammers were hitting the wood inches away from the nail, just making noise instead of fixing the damage. 

It would do for now. 

Stiles just shrugged. "Remember, Scott. Just a scratch." 

Scott nodded, wearing a serious expression, as he extended his claws and raised his hand for the strike. 

Stiles closed his eyes in anticipation, not so much because he was afraid, but because he thought it might be easier to suppress the reflex to move out of harm's way. 

Before something could happen, though, they were interrupted by Isaac cursing. 

Stiles wasn't sure what the danger was since he only just opened his eyes again at that moment. His sparks had gotten alarmed by the change in his heartbeat and headed straight toward the source of his turmoil, though, before he was even aware of what was happening. 

At first, he heard a muted thump, immediately followed by the anguished scream of somebody. 

Then he registered that Jackson was lying on the ground, right next to the steps to the porch. Right above him was a floating hammer that was still trying to hit him. The werelizard appeared to have been hit once already - probably the hit that had knocked him down to the ground. 

"Stilinski! Do something!" Jackson screamed, rolling around on the ground to avoid getting hit again by the still attacking tool. 

Stiles snapped out of his silent amazement at the surreal scene before him then and stepped into action. He stretched out his hand in the direction of the floating hammer and beckoned it to return to him. 

Obeying to his silent command, the tool abandoned its pursuit of Jackson and flew toward Stiles. Unfortunately, it still seemed to think that it needed to attack and defend, which was why it hit him right in the stomach and sent him falling backward. 

He crashed into the already damaged railing and since its planks were not nailed into place yet, he broke through. 

With a low groan, he landed on soft grass, the breath knocked out of him. 

His stomach felt like it had jumped into his throat. 

There certainly was no need for Scott to scratch him now. His whole body felt like a giant bruise to him and he was sure he had at least a dozen of little splinters in his arm from where it had been dragged over the surface of the rugged wooden plank. 

"That's it! You're dead!" Jackson announced, full of rage, already making a bolt for Stiles. 

He never reached him, though, because Scott got in his way and held him back as best as he could. 

Meanwhile, Isaac was helping up Stiles, brushing debris from his shoulders and back and grimacing in sympathy. 

"Stop it! He didn't mean to!" Scott hissed but Jackson was unwilling to calm down, it seemed. 

Naturally, the commotion they were causing had alarmed the others as well, and soon Derek lunged at both of his fighting betas, throwing Jackson off of Scott, and pinned him face first on the ground, the werelizard's arm painfully twisted in a firm grip to his back. 

"I'm no handyman," Peter said, far too casual for that situation, "but the porch looks even worse than before. I think you're doing something wrong." 

It did look worse. Before only three of the horizontal bars were broken and only a small part of the banister was missing. Now, the whole length of the banister had broken apart with the latest impact it had taken, causing all the bars to have fallen down as well. Only the pillars at the corners were still standing. 

"Now," Derek growled, still pinning Jackson mercilessly to the ground, "Can someone explain to me what the fuck happened?" 

Stiles grimaced. "I might have accidently - totally accidently, really - hit Jackson with a hammer. Well, it wasn't really me. I mean, I didn't even see Jackson! The hammer just attacked him -" 

"It was totally your fault!" Jackson snapped, his voice slightly muted from the way his left cheek was pressed to the ground. "Or what, are you saying we're being haunted and the first evil thing that happens are floating hammers?!" 

Derek's glare, that had been directed at Jackson since he had stepped out of the Hale House, now shifted its focus to Stiles. 

"Why was the hammer floating?" 

The seriousness with which he delivered that question was almost comical in that situation. His completely grave and dry tone would have been more appropriate if he had asked a serial killer why they had committed all those murders. 

Stiles bit his lip, knowing there was no way he could talk himself out of this. "It was trying to repair the porch?" 

The annoyed huff Derek let out was not enough of a statement to accentuate how pissed he was at Stiles, so he immediately let go of Jackson to even further drive that point home. All the while glaring at Stiles. 

Jackson brushed off the dirt of his shoulders, his icy gaze fixated on Stiles as if he hoped he could set him on fire if he only stared hard enough. 

The object of the hostile attention shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Look, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention to what the sparks were doing, then Isaac got startled, which in turn startled me and ... well, the sparks thought you were a threat, I guess. It shouldn't have happened and - hey, does your head still hurt?" 

"What the - of course it still hurts! I got knocked down by a freaking hammer! What the fuck do you think it...," Jackson trailed off his angry rant when he noticed the eager glint in the other teenager's eyes. 

Next thing he knew, Stiles stood in front of him with a jar of something funny smelling in hand, applying some of it on the growing bump on his forehead. 

"Now it doesn't hurt anymore, does it? So stop whining." 

He then proceeded to use it on himself, choosing one of the bigger scratches on his palm for it. 

Only seconds after applying the ointment, the scratch started to tingle, then it closed. Eventually, it disappeared completely, leaving his skin completely unblemished. 

"It really works!" Scott breathed out in fascination. 

They shared a quick glance, a grin spreading over their faces. 

Stiles' glee at the new-found healing ointment was short, though, because the jar was snatched out of his hand in the blink of an eye. 

"Where did you get that from?" Derek asked with narrowed eyes. He took a quick sniff of the ointment, squinting his eyes in concentration. "Deaton should check it out. It could be dangerous. No one uses it until we know what it is made of." 

Derek kept his stance, even after Stiles had explained where he had gotten it from and emphasized repeatedly that it couldn't be harmful when all it really did was heal. 

He couldn't change the alpha's mind, though. Not when Derek was still kind of pissed about Stiles' irresponsible usage of his powers. 

As Derek was extracting all the splinters from Stiles' skin, pointedly avoiding to meet Stiles' gaze, his eyebrows were set so firmly above his eyes that there was no doubt over how angry he still was. He was focusing too intensely on his task, taking it as serious as a surgeon treated a brain surgery.

Those eyebrows were silently judging him, Stiles was sure of it. 

"I guess I got a little too cocky," Stiles conceded, no longer able to take the heavy silence. "Thinking I could just let them fade into the background of my attention without losing control over them. That probably was really stupid." 

The alpha just snorted. 

The on-going silent treatment caused Stiles to sigh in frustration. "You know, I already apologized and I'm truly sorry. I know that I wasn't thinking about consequences and that I acted irresponsibly because it could have been someone human instead of Jackson - not that it being Jackson makes it better or something! But I realize that I could have seriously hurt somebody and I truly regret that. I'd take it back if I could! I'd promise that I'll never let that happen again but I can't without lying. I wish I could but we both know that I have no real control over the sparks. Not really. Sometimes they indulge me but, in the end, they'll do whatever they want. Maybe I should become a hermit and live far away from society. What if that's the only solution? I mean, I could endanger everyone around me if I don't learn to properly control them and -" 

"Stiles, would you please shut up already?" 

Rather than the actual rude request, it was the fondness in the alpha's voice that made Stiles comply. 

Derek shifted slightly which caused Stiles to shift as well. 

They were in the office again, because it was apparently the place where Derek kept his medical supplies as well. Maybe having a first-aid kit nearby was indispensable to conduct a successful business in the werewolf world, who knows. Actually, Stiles couldn't see a more persuasive argument than the alpha's fists. It was probably just good manners to take care of business associates once they had agreed to work with you. 

Now that he thought about it, Stiles could see Derek in the role of a mafia boss, eliminating those who stand in his way and threaten to destroy what was his. But even as the mob boss, his reputation wouldn't be as rumored and feared as Peter's and Laura's. 

_The Were-father_ , Stiles thought, smirking slightly. 

What would his role be, he wondered? Right now, he kind of looked like the mob boss's lap dog since he was sitting with him on the small couch with his legs sprawled over Derek's. 

At the reminder of the intimate position, Stiles began to wiggle in slight embarrassment. It earned him a tap against his outer thigh in reprimand. 

"You're not cut out for the life of a hermit," Derek simply stated, not pausing in his work. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows in mocked offense. "Yeah? Well, I don't seem to be cut out for the life of a spark, either. I mean, whose idea was it to give the power that actually requires a lot of discipline and concentration to someone with ADHD and the poorest impulse control around? No one with good intentions could come up with that, that much should be clear. It's probably someone who wants to see the world burn!" 

"You realize that you're lamenting over being a possible danger to society to a werewolf of all people, right?" 

"If you put it like that, I do sound like an insensitive jerk," Stiles admitted. 

The last splinter had finally been extracted from his skin, but the most painful thing was the appliance of the disinfectant spray anyway. Derek didn't ease him into it. He just held him in place when he tried to pry himself away from the alpha's grip. 

At last, he wrapped a thin bandage around his arm. 

"You're surprisingly good at this," Stiles noted, looking at the almost professionally wrapped bandage. 

"This isn't the first time I've done this," Derek replied dryly, obviously referring to Stiles' other little accidents that had happened over the last few weeks. 

"Hey, you have no idea how hard it is to balance when you have only one good leg!" Stiles defended himself. "And thanks to me you can list first aid skills on your resumé so don't complain." 

Now that he had both of his hands back to himself and there was no reason that they were sitting so close to each other, Stiles felt kind of sheepish. Not knowing what else to do, he fumbled with his hands, eventually focusing on the scars on his palms. 

He remembered the strange sight of himself in the mirror in which the silver had turned black like he was beginning to rot. Even the reminder still sent shivers down his back. 

Given his curious nature, he had naturally done his research about the hexagon. It had to mean something, especially since the scars always began to glow when he conjured up the sparks. 

What he had found on the internet and in books didn't seem to relate to his case, though. He was still lost. 

The alpha had followed his gaze to his palms and was now eyeing the symbol the scars were forming as well. Unlike Stiles, he didn't look at them like they were the root of evil. 

It, therefore, surprised Stiles when the other man's hand suddenly took hold of his own and brought it closer to his other so that the symbol was completed. 

"We shouldn't judge ourselves and others by our abilities but by what we do with them," the alpha said quietly. "That's what my mom used to tell me when I or my sisters couldn't control our wolves and thought we were monsters. She also taught us that the more you fear the powerful part of you, the more it takes control. As long as you don't accept the wolf as a part of yourself rather than as a different entity, you're bound to be at war with it." 

Stiles felt the yearning in Derek's voice when he mentioned his mother echo inside himself, reaching out for the hole in his heart to settle there. 

Before he was able to overthink the action he intertwined his fingers with Derek's. Oddly enough, it didn't seem like such a strange thing to do. It just felt right. 

Bodily contact and displays of affections had become a given between the two of them. At first, it had never lasted very long because the action usually caught up soon enough to their minds and their common sense made them withdraw from the other. Since it had kept happening, though, even their common sense seemed to bow down to the unexplainable need for contact. 

And Stiles saw nothing wrong with it. Werewolves were naturally more tactile than humans and since Stiles wasn't really part of the pack of his own accord, Derek's wolfish side probably thought that the best way to protect him was to mark him as much with his own scent as possible. 

As for Stiles, he had never been one to turn down affection or restrain himself from showing his own to the people that mattered to him. 

To outsiders, it may look strange. But as long as it worked for them, Stiles didn't even think about changing a thing. 

"I don't like it when you're smarter than me," Stiles complained, a small grin on his lips, "That's not how this works. You're supposed to be the silent, grumpy one and I'm supposed to be the smart, suave one with the great sense of humor and a charm no one can resist. Don't get it mixed up." 

Derek looked doubtful. "You have to work on some of those attributes that supposedly apply to you or I'll have to replace you. You only fit one-half of the criteria right now." 

"Oh, haha. You better leave the jokes to me. That was horrible." Stiles narrowed his eyes at the werewolf as he thought of something. "Hey, what half does fit me?" 

Derek never gave him a concrete answer to that, so they just continued the silly little banter until Stiles was eventually dragged away by Malia and Cora to watch a movie with them. 

When he was alone in the office, Derek walked over to the desk and picked up the jar of ointment that he had placed there. 

He didn't know what it was but he didn't trust it. In his book, people you just met didn't give you something this powerful without being aware of its effect. 

Maybe he was just paranoid. But it definitely couldn't hurt to analyze the ointment to make sure it didn't have any negative side-effects. He didn't want to take any risks. 

Tomorrow, he would bring it to Deaton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little note: Someone once suggested the name Calcifer for the spark and I liked that idea but I didn't know how to mention it in the story so I made sure to establish Isaac as an anime fan and let him get closer to Stiles, just so I could use the name at least once. Did it pay off? Probably not in the way the person had imagined it, but I tried. 
> 
> Hello, my lovelies!
> 
> This chapter is shorter than I orginally planned it but it felt right to end it there so I did. The following chapters will probably be longer, though, because I have a lot of plot to cover.
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next chapter!


	4. Setting Goals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles learns that truly moving on with life means to set himself new goals, Jackson gets assigned an important task, Deaton is surprisingly helpful and more than one person's nightmare comes to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: potentially scary imagery (mostly at end of the chapter), nothing explicit though

Dust particles were slowly settling on the shelves, gliding to the surface like snowflakes. They were highlighted by the thin stream of sunlight that came through the small hole in the window shutters that were drawn down and had plunged the room into darkness. Only that small ray of sunlight had made it their mission to break into the room regardless of the wish for darkness the person in the room might have harbored. 

Stiles pondered over its courage for a while until he became aware of how ridiculous that was. Light would always prevail over darkness once it had found a way in. There's no courage in that. It's just a simple fact. 

His open eyes wandered over to his desk where a folded newspaper lay underneath his school books. He should have thrown it away immediately instead of taking it back home with him. The only interesting thing to him was the headline, anyway. 

_"Hellfire - Dangers Of Doing the Devil's Bidding"_

For a newspaper that strived to be taken seriously, the headline was rather tacky and dramatic. It told more about the way the article was written than it ought to. 

Speculations. With a few facts strewn in between. That was all that it was. 

Not to mention the paragraph that addressed the rumors coursing around school concerning Stiles' involvement in the incident. His refusal to give a comment was mentioned in a way that didn't merely suggest that there was something shady going on with him, it was outright announced that his behavior indicated that it couldn't be a coincidence that he returned with scars and a broken leg to school shortly after that horrific occurrence in his hometown. 

The last paragraph read: _"As long as we're given no facts, the mystery around that fateful night may continue to haunt the halls of St. Joanna's Academy. Maybe this is the start of a new legend, a story told to freshman to scare them off from leaving god's path. What is certain, however, is that this incident will leave its imprint on the people who have heard it. Some of us may even find that its ghost has hefted itself on our heels."_

Stiles shook his head. "Not very professional, Bertha. Bringing religion into this. I guess being objective isn't a requirement for your paper, huh?" 

To Bertha's credit, she didn't actually drag his name through the mud as he would have expected her to do. Though the way she wrote about him did in no way present him in the proper light, she didn't portray him as badly as her threats had made him believe. 

Maybe she really could have been able to turn his reputation around for the better. He'd never find out. 

Not that he really cared about that anyway. His reputation was the least of his worries. 

_Haunted_ , he thought. _That's an accurate term for it. And the ghost didn't just heft itself on my heels. It became my freaking shadow._

With that thought in mind, he finally dropped the sheet over the mirror in the bathroom, glad that the absence of light made it easier to ignore his own reflection. 

It was a childish notion - to cover it so he didn't have to look at it anymore - but after another nearly sleepless night, he was grasping at straws. 

When it was done, he drew in a shaky breath, his hand still hovering in front of him. He didn't know why he was hesitating to retract it. 

His heart was thumping loudly against his ribcage as he slowly moved his hand away from the mirror. His eyes were focused, he was even afraid to blink. 

He only felt safe when his hand was back at his side. He turned around to leave, only to freeze immediately in his step. 

The shock caused him to stumble, losing his footing on the tiles. He caught himself on the door frame but his cane fell with a loud _clack_ to the ground. 

His eyes had closed themselves at their own accord, his fingers gripping onto the door frame so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. He told himself that he had to turn around, to look and make sure - to keep an eye on it. It was not safe! 

But it was the laugh of a child that made him open his eyes. 

"I totally managed to scare you!" 

Ray was holding his tummy because he was laughing so hard. His blue eyes were sparkling with mirth as he showed a toothy grin. The grin was all the more charming because of one missing upper tooth. 

Stiles managed a shaky smile. "Yeah, you got me good! I thought I'd have a heart attack!" 

Ray's grin became even more pronounced as he looked up to Stiles. He was leaning on his own cane - something he had hated at first but was now proud that he had in common with the older boy - but still he bent forward to pick up Stiles' own and hand it over to the teen. 

The once broken bone may not hurt Stiles anymore, but the muscles in his thigh were still too weak and underutilized to carry his weight so the cane was still needed. 

As much as that annoyed him, at least he was able to walk around without experiencing any discomfort or pain anymore. The ointment had really performed wonders. 

"So," Stiles started as he limped back into his room, "Not that I'm not glad to see you, buddy, but what brings you to my humble abode? You missed the fox, didn't you?" He threw a quick, accusing glance toward the animal who just stared back at him with firm eyes which must mean that Burly was rather proud of his popularity. 

Ray giggled and sat down on the bed, patting the spot next to him. Burly didn't need to be told twice and jumped up to get the attention he so much desired. The kid's hand immediately started to scratch behind his big ears. 

"Your sister is sending her little minion now to fetch me?" 

Ray nodded vigorously. "Yeah, she says she's too mad at you to face you. She'll probably make you ride with me in the back, too." 

Stiles really should have expected that Lindsay had seen the headline too. It was likely that she had read the entire article. From what Ray told him he gathered that she didn't like how he had handled the situation. 

"I'll survive," Stiles told him. Then he fetched himself a hoodie from his closet and grabbed the folder with sheet music that sat on his desk. "Are you ready, Mr. Simmons? The carriage is waiting or so I hear." 

Ray was about to jump off the bed when suddenly his eyes widened in realization. Instead of going to the door he took out a folded sheet of paper from his jeans pocket. 

"I nearly forgot! I made this for you!" he exclaimed hurriedly. Then he gave Stiles the paper. "Since Christmas is right around the corner and it's the season of giving and all..." 

Stiles unfolded it. "It's a list. With things to do?" He was unsure what he was supposed to do with it. Did Ray just hand him the wrong sheet of paper? 

"Yes, I know," Ray agreed, the smile returning with vibrancy. "Lindsay, mom, and dad got one too! You can choose one of those things and we'll do it together. It'll be like... an early Christmas present. Or a late one." 

Stiles eyed the list thoroughly and discovered that - against his expectation - it was not a Christmas Wish-list. It was a general Wish-list. The only bullet point that was appropriate for the season was the fourth on the list which was _to go sledding_.

"Don't you know that you normally make a list on New Years? It's called New Year's resolution," Stiles joked but his voice lacked the joy and teasing character for it to work. His fingers had already begun to fold the paper again. He tried to channel all his thoughts into the action. 

Ray watched him with a frown on his face. "You remember the really nice lady that me and my family sometimes talk to at the hospital? She said I should try it. There's nothing wrong with setting goals, you know? Making the days count. Or something." 

Stiles gritted his teeth in anger at the lady he had never met but already hated with a passion that was usually reserved for a lifelong arch-nemesis. 

How dare she treat the boy like he had to make the best of his last days? How dare she give him the feeling that he had to do everything he desired as fast as possible because she could already see the sand in his hourglass running out? 

"There's no need to stress about these things," Stiles told the boy, already putting the wish-list away. "We'll do all of those things. And even more. We'll do everything one can possibly do without breaking the law. And once mankind has made it possible, we'll make a trip to the moon. Don't worry about it, okay? We have time." 

They have time. Ray was just eight years old. He deserved to have time. Years, decades. Half a century and more. He deserved to live a full human life with everything it had to offer. 

And Stiles would make sure he would. No matter what that counselor lady or any of the hospital staff may think. 

"But- but Stiles!" Ray spluttered, stomping his foot in distress. "I want to start now! We'll even start slow, okay? Just one goal for now, one wish! I let you choose! Please! Why can't I start now?" 

_Because I don't want to give you any reason to think it's okay to go now_ , Stiles thought, just as distressed as the boy sounded. 

"Okay, okay," Stiles gave in. "I'll think about which goal we first try to accomplish, okay? But now we need to go. I bet your sister is tempted to just leave us here because we're taking so long! You know that she can't stand it when her schedule gets messed up." 

Calmed down now that Stiles had promised to go along with the Wish-list, Ray finally nodded. Together they made their way downstairs, their arms linked like they were a victorian couple taking a stroll in the garden. 

Ever since they both had to walk around with a cane, they had joked about looking like gentlemen in Jane Austen movies. 

Going along with their joke, Stiles opened the car door for Ray to which the boy bowed gratefully before he jammed himself onto the small backseat of Lindsay's car. 

***

The basement of the Simmons household had always been a lively and crammed place to be on a Tuesday afternoon but never had it held as many people as it did nowadays. 

Lindsay's band called "Ray of Light" - so named after her little brother Ray who had been diagnosed with leukemia when he had been just five years old - also included Zoey - who was her older cousin and Laura Hale's girlfriend - Chandler the drummer, Zack the bassist and Stiles, the songwriter and pianist as of late. Once, Lindsay's boyfriend Brad had been a band member too, but he was no longer welcome after they had broken up. 

Additional to all the band members, Cora, Burly, and Ray were also present whenever the band came together to practice. 

Sometimes, Cora even joined them, playing either her violin or the tambourine. Ever since the first time she had joined them, Stiles always made sure to include her in the score. Surprisingly, a violin went well with most of the songs he had already written. 

Which were two; the newest one he was working on not really finished yet. 

Right now, they were playing a cover of "Florence + the Machines"' _Dog Days Are Over_ , a song choice that caused Stiles and Cora to share a knowing smirk. 

Instead of Lindsay, Zoey was decided to be the lead singer for that song since it fitted her voice rather well. Her voice was deeper and sharper than Lindsay's. It sounded more mature and so she was able to perfectly deliver the message of the song. 

Once they were satisfied with their performance (or rather, once Lindsay ran out of things to criticize), they decided to call it a day. 

"Wait, can I request a song?" Ray asked. 

"Sure, little dude," Chandler answered with a shrug, swinging one of his drumsticks around between his fingers. 

Encouraged by Chandler's answer, Ray hopped from his chair and stomped with his cane on the floor to get everyone's attention. 

"My request is _The Bare Necessities_ and I'd like to sing this song with Stiles," the boy announced then, causing everyone to grin in glee with the exception of Stiles who nearly choked on his own spit. 

"It's part of our repertoire," Zack said, already nodding. Lindsay was the one who pulled the music sheets out a thick folder and handed them out to the musicians. She literally had to press the sheet into Stiles' hands, though, because the teen was still trying to weasel his way out of it. 

"Don't worry," Ray told him when they were standing next to each other in front of two microphones. "We're a team. You're not going to lose with me on your side." 

It wasn't all that reassuring but there was no way to back out of it now so Stiles just gulped down his anxiety and tried to control his breathing. 

He nearly missed his cue to start singing. 

At first, his voice was barely audible. He was shy, all too aware of all the ears that were listening and all the heads that were probably thinking about him derogatorily already. 

A few lines into the song, it became easier. Once they sang the chorus together, Stiles was even able to smile. 

When the song was over, he was surprised to realize that he had actually enjoyed it. As the other's clapped and expressed their compliments, Ray and Stiles fist-bumped and shared a grin. 

"First goal: Singing with a friend in front of others. Check," Ray exclaimed full of joy. 

Realizing that he had been part of a ploy, Stiles started to laugh and ruffled the boy's hair in retaliation. 

Maybe he should have read the whole Wish-list before he had stuffed it away. 

***

"Why do I have to come with you? I have better things to do with my free time!" 

Derek rolled his eyes as he made his way through the front of Deaton's praxis. Dogs were cowering in fear and cats were hissing with their hair standing on end as he passed their cages. They could sense his predatory dominance and the dogs acknowledged his alpha status. 

The animals' reactions would have drawn attention to Derek and Jackson but seeing as the praxis was already closed, nobody was there to witness it. 

Both werewolves entered the backroom of Deaton's praxis where he usually treated his supernatural clientele, hidden from the common view. 

"Ah, Alpha Hale! And Mr. Whittmore. You're probably here for the result of the analysis I ran on the ointment," Deaton greeted them, looking up from a file he had been filling out. "I think you'll be quite surprised by it." 

Derek crossed his arms in front of his chest as he looked expectantly at the vet. 

"You needn't worry, Alpha Hale. The concoction is absolutely non-threatening to any skin type and werewolves. It was prepared with basic ingredients for an ointment such as olive oil, shea butter, lanolin anhydrous as an emulsifier, tee tree oil for conservation and - the most important ingredient - unicorn saliva. As you probably can guess, unicorn saliva has an unmatched instant healing power and is also very hard to come by." 

Jackson raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Did you just say unicorn saliva? As in the spit of a mythical creature that only exists in fairy tales?" 

Deaton opened a drawer that had been locked and took out the jar with the ointment in question. He handed it over to Derek who accepted it after a moment of hesitation. 

"Oh, they do exist, Mr. Whittmore. They're a dying species, nearly hunted down to extinction and robbed of their homeland but there are still recent sightings recorded. Whoever gifted you with the ointment was one of those lucky people, I believe." 

Jackson scoffed at that. "So Stilinski made friends with someone as nutty as him, huh." 

Derek ignored Jackson's comment, voicing his suspicions to Deaton instead, "Do you think he's a hunter? Or a collector of some sort? For him to have something as rare as this..." 

Deaton nodded thoughtfully, thinking it over. "It's possible. I have never come across anyone who could claim to have even seen a unicorn, let alone got close enough to one to obtain their saliva. It is rather strange for a man his age to have something of that value. You did describe the man as young, as far as I can remember?" Derek nodded and Deaton continued, "Well, then. Maybe you shouldn't eliminate the possibility that there is a hidden agenda to the gift. And he gave it to Stiles, you said?"

Derek nodded grimly. 

"Well, it is also entirely possible that the man has no ill will towards him. A gift like this is of high value. Even a human can heal as fast as an alpha werewolf with the help of unicorn saliva. I imagine that Mr. Stilinski's injury is healing fine now?" Another nod, "Well then, whatever the intention the gift was given with, its effect is nothing short of miraculous. Sometimes it can't hurt to simply be grateful when fortune smiles on us, wouldn't you say?" 

Sometimes, Derek wondered what kind of drugs Deaton took to be this calm all the time. There was no way the vet was just born with nerves of steal. 

The alpha exhaled through his nose, trying to remain patient. "Anyway, thanks for your help, Deaton." 

The vet smiled enigmatically. "Anytime." 

"What about the other thing I asked you for?" 

Hearing that made Jackson perk up. Was there another reason for their visit? 

"Ah," Deaton said, unlocking another drawer from which he produced a thin folder that he slid across the desk towards Derek. "They were quite agreeable. I don't think you should encounter any problems." 

Derek took the folder, "I see. We'll take it from here." The alpha was about to go, Jackson following him with a confused expression when Deaton's voice suddenly halted them in their steps. 

"Derek, there is one thing you should know." The alpha turned around again to face the vet who was looking rather serious, " They'll do anything to achieve their goals. That's what the Order is all about. It's dangerous to get in their way." 

To Jackson's surprise, Derek seemed to actually understand the cryptic message because his face immediately hardened. 

"You've done enough for us already. I owe you," the alpha answered, both in appreciation as in farewell. 

The vet smiled. "As is my duty as the Hale emissary." 

Then they left and Jackson was more confused than ever. He had to wait until they were in the car, though, before he could shoot all his questions at the alpha. 

"What the hell was that?! What's in that folder? And what was the other thing you asked Deaton for?" 

Derek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, the other on the steering wheel. 

"One week ago, a Kitsune came to me to ask me for permission to settle in our territory. Seeing as she was obviously not posing a threat, I couldn't decline her request. She's not alone, though," He took the next turn so sharply that Jackson actually had to brace himself on the dashboard in order not to fall over, "They call themselves _The Order_ , because they devoted themselves to keeping balance between the supernatural and the natural world. Apparently, they've existed for centuries, though my pack has never had any business with them before." 

"So, this is the first time their business brought them to Beacon Hills?" 

"No," Derek said curtly. "Last time they've been here I was about two years old. They said they were here to fix a dying tree they called _the Nemeton_. It was an unsuccessful endeavor and so they left." 

"What's a-" 

"You can read about that later!" the alpha snapped, running out of patience. Jackson took the cue to move on. "Deaton has set up a meeting between our pack and the Order at their request and my agreement. They wouldn't come back for nothing, they're here for a reason." 

Jackson couldn't really see what the big deal was. So those guys were here because they had some goal to accomplish. What did it have to do with them and why was Derek so agitated? 

"Why are you telling me all this?" 

"Because," Derek started, taking a quick glance at his beta, "doing negotiations with a Kitsune is always tricky. They're smart and cunning. And the Order has no qualms to go over bodies when it comes to achieving their objectives. You're the closest thing to a lawyer we have." 

Jackson scoffed at that. He was just as much a lawyer as any other high school student. Just because he might have picked up a few tricks from his dad and skimmed a few of his books from university, he wasn't qualified to accept that position, no matter how trivial the matter of the negotiation. It did, however, very much appeal to his ego. 

"So you want me to make sure that them achieving their main objective doesn't contradict our own objective." Jackson told himself not to feel smug at the alpha's nod. He didn't need anybody's praise. "And our objective is to keep the pack safe, I assume. But from what you have told me about them, I don't see any conflict. That is, if they really care as little for a pack of werewolves as you've let on." 

Derek gritted his teeth in obvious annoyance. "We're not just a pack of werewolves, Jackson." 

_Lydia._

"I'll do it. Give me every information you have about them." 

*** 

Cora accompanied him to the door while Zoey was waiting for her in the car. They had shared a meaningful glance before Cora had exited the car which was probably all it took to come to an agreement between the two of them. 

"You look awful." 

"Aww, thanks, Corey-kins! I hardly ever get compliments from you anymore! I was already thinking our love was dead!" 

The werewolf rolled her eyes and flicked him on the cheek. Pouting, Stiles rubbed the affronted part of his face. 

The glare he received wiped the smug smile off of his face. 

"You can call me anytime, Stiles. Even in the middle of the night. Just be aware that you'll have to deal with me verbally assaulting you," she huffed, looking away. "No, but seriously. If you can't sleep, call me. Or... you know... if you just want to talk." 

She was more embarrassed by saying that than he was annoyed at hearing it. 

But he was also feeling warmth bloom his chest. 

"Well, at least you're still talking to me. Makes it easier to deal with the cold shoulder Lindsay's showing me." Stiles tried to make it sound like he didn't mind. But he did. 

Cora's brows furrowed, like she was blaming him for her following words. "You know, she might be a bit vain, and calculating, and fussy, but she's one who works really hard for the things she wants in life. She's ambitious but she made sacrifices, has put you before her goals. She probably thought you'd think about how your choices would affect her too, for once." 

Stiles felt the icy regret flow through his veins and he shuddered slightly at the reminder of Lindsay's disappointed anger that was directed towards him. 

He remembered the warning Bertha had given him, remembered that some students had enough influence in this school to affect his future career. He hadn't cared about that at the time because he was haunted by his past and could barely stay awake to register the present. What did he care about the future?

But not only his future was on the stake here. Cora and Lindsay had decided to stand by him which meant that if he was standing in a sea full of shit, so were they. 

Whatever his facial expression conveyed, Cora seemed to instantly pick up in which direction his thoughts had wandered. 

"I don't care whether you're popular or the most hated person in school. What I can't stand is your indifference to it all. You took the path of not giving a shit what others say - okay fine. But freaking own it! If you think I'll let you disappear into yourself, you're damn wrong." 

Shame was causing his cheeks to colour slightly so he looked to the ground. 

"So, it's time to make operation _Show them all_ a go, isn't it?" He slowly lifted his gaze, trying to gauge her reaction. Probably hearing his nervously beating heart, Cora took great lenghts at keeping her expression emotionless. 

He was almost sure that he had messed it up somehow, when a sly grin started to spread on her lips. "It's about time!" Her relief was almost physically palpable in the way that she seemed to have grown a few inches. 

"See you tomorrow, loser! And be prepared to do the 'Devil's Bidding'." She flashed him a quick grin once more, punched his shoulder and left him standing on his porch.

The light steps with which she bounced back to the car were more than enough indication that he was finally on the right track again. 

_Setting goals_ , he thought. _Ray is right. We shouldn't only do that on New Years. What's wrong with starting right now?_

With that thought in mind, he went inside and upstairs to pull the sheet off of the mirror again. There was no way he had heard a shrill scream coming from it. It must have been Ray, squealing in excitement at the prospect of scaring Stiles. 

It was just ridiculous to be afraid of it, after all. 

***

The thing about fear is that it exists for a reason. It keeps us alive. If you had nothing to fear, you probably also didn't have anything left to lose. 

Veins pulsing with the adrenaline of being so close to the edge, he could taste the endlessness of the abyss on his tongue and already feel the vertigo from the freefall but he refused to close his eyes. Because seeing the end required to actually face it. 

The man in the cloak felt the fear run down the jagged skin of his scars, fleeting across the broken flesh like a lover's soft caress to wish him farewell. 

"No," he hissed. "Not like this. Not this way!" 

His hand was shaking under the weight of what he was about to do. He balled his left hand into fist and started to cut with the other. His teeth gritted together in anguish, lips pressed so tightly together that they were turning white. But he couldn't afford to let loose the scream that was building up in his throat. 

"I won't hand him over to the Order. Not so easily," he mumbled incoherently, the pain numbing his tongue. 

His lightsource was limited, a lone candle nearly burned down but its countless reflections made it seem like he was in a room with lit candles. 

The blood was steadily running down his arm, pooling in his slightly crooked palm. When he deemed it enough, he dipped a finger in it and wrote a single name onto the surface in front of him, a surface that seemed to surround him, cage him in. 

It was his very own prison. Always had been. 

_Swietomierz_

The man fell to his knees and let his head fall back. If he were under the night sky right now, he would be looking at the stars right now, lost and broken. 

"Forgive me, father." 

***

On the other end of town, police men were standing in front of a house where a small area of the garden was seperated from the rest by a bright yellow police tape. 

The blue lights were submerging the scene in a ghostly pale light every so often. 

"That guy's been dead for at least two months, judging by the state of decomposition," a man said, crouched down in the lawn. 

Sheriff Stilinski rubbed his temples, squinting at the corpse even through the waves of his headache. 

He didn't even need to ask for identification of the man. A sudden appearing corpse without arms and legs could only mean one thing. His nightmare had made its reoccurence tonight. 

"Sheriff Stilinski? I would've preferred to meet you under different circumstances." 

A black-haired small woman appearing to be in her early forties - but it was hard to say in the harsh light the flashlight offered - walked gracefully but determined towards him. 

Her eyes were almost as black as coal as she smiled politely at him. 

"I'm Private Investigator Noshiko Yukimura. The owner of the property where the victim was found has called me in for this case. I was hoping to count on your cooperation." Her explanation should have surprised the sheriff or at least made him question whether she was all that she appeared to be. No Private Investigator has ever been consulted in a crime happening in such a small town as Beacon Hills. 

But this case... this case was clouding his judgement. This wasn't just a case to him. It was his own personal hell. 

"I think I've found something of interest. You should take a look at it. I've found it over here, at the exterior wall of the house," she said as she was already leading him and a deputy with a camera in hand to the backyard. 

Sheriff Stilinski's hand was shaking ever so slightly as he directed the light cone produced by his flashlight to the wall. The blood immediately froze in his veins at the sight. 

Written in red - maybe blood? - one sentence stood in stark and crass contrast to the white wall: _For little knows my royal dame that Rumpelstiltskin is my name!_

The deputy by his side looked puzzled at the message, wondering why anyone would leave such a random sentence on a crime scene. He probably didn't know that it was a quote from a Grimm's fairytale. 

_He's back,_ was all the sheriff could think about. 

The woman at his side regarded the message with cold precision, taking in every detail. 

No one asked her how she was able to spot it without a flashlight because no one paid that much attention. And no one noticed when she picked up a small piece of fabric from the ground, either. 

***

A scream tore itself through his throat, much like the one he had been startled by earlier that day. 

Stiles sat up in his bed, his hands immediately flying to his head to shield it, his mouth still open in horror. 

His lungs were hurting from the ragged breaths he was taking in, his chest complaining about the heavy pounding from his frantic beating heart. 

It took him a while to realize that the heavy grip he felt suffocating him was just the tight shackles of a nightmare that were still holding him captive. 

Desperate to get free, he fumbled for the lightswitch of his bedside lamp. When he finally found it, he had to squint his eyes at the painful brightness. As the pain rose like a wave in his head, he became aware of the state of the rest of his body. 

He was coated in sweat from head to toe, his legs painfully tight entangled into the sheets like he had been rolling around and kicking out in self-defense. 

His throat felt raw and dry - probably because he had been screaming for longer than he had realized. 

At last, he became aware of the dull throbbing in his left palm. Almost scared to inspect it, he held the trembling extremety under the lamplight. 

What he saw actually caused him to whimper, his eyes immediately closing again as if they could burn the sight out of his memory if they just refused to take it in. 

His silver scars - the half hexagon on each palm, the symbol only complete when he held both hands next to each other - were no longer the same. 

The hexagon was still clearly visible, each corner connected to the opposite one placed on the other palm by a thin line. 

But on his left palm, where there were supposed to be six lines of silvery scar tissue, two of them were now a sickly black. 

Before he could even attempt to conceive what was going on, he turned to the side, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor. 

With his last bit of energy, he made a grab for his phone, dialling the only number that came to mind.


	5. Bad Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The body reappearing, the change of his scars, the message left for him; those are all signs that something bad is happening, Stiles is sure of it. But what is really a threat and what is just the fault of his hyper-vigilance and paranoid state of mind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** a potentially scary scene which is properly marked so it's possible to skip it. Please read the note at the end to get a summary of what happened that will leave out any of the scary details.

[Stiles' scars](https://67.media.tumblr.com/32f74aa44da08995096680ea653a4376/tumblr_ocs6j6ePdu1shsitqo1_1280.jpg)

 

[Stiles' scars after he wakes up in chapter 4](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3542c45485602d8d473e0ca7d7a7231f/tumblr_ocs6ruY4FX1shsitqo1_1280.jpg)

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He probably could have stopped him or at least avoided the misunderstanding that had led to this situation. But sometimes more light was shed on the character of a person if they were given the chance to act out their instinctual responses to fear. 

And the Sheriff proved to be as interesting in that department as Peter had expected from him. 

His decision to let the scene unfold itself, though, had led to his current predicament of being pushed face down against a table, his hands restricted in a surprisingly strong grip and a gun - undoubtedly loaded with wolfsbane bullets - held steadily to his temple. 

He had to hand it to the man: even as upset as he was, he still had enough self-discipline to keep his voice even and be in complete control of the situation. 

"Now, now, Sheriff. I haven't seen a search warrant. But you have my permission to search my body since you're already here." 

A kick to the back of his knee caused the smug werewolf to lose his balance and resulted in him getting pressed even more violently against the table. Given his supernatural strength, he would have been able to free himself from the hold of the Sheriff rather easily, but he wasn't willing to take his chance when his opponent was desperate and unpredictable. Not to mention the wolfsbane bullets; they would hurt like a bitch. 

"We had a deal, Hale!" the man of the law finally gritted out through clenched teeth. "You promised me you'd keep him safe!" 

Peter went completely still and his expression turned to ice. 

"And I still stand by that deal. Now would you please be so kind as to let go of me so that we could converse like civilized people? This position does nothing to help me stay serious. If anything, it makes me horny." 

Immediately, Jon Stilinski let go of the other man as if his skin had burned him and took several steps back. Peter rose to his full height, smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt casually. 

"Now tell me what happened to Stiles," Peter demanded calmly. 

As if the mention of that name had opened up the gates for disaster, Derek, Isaac, and Malia came barreling into the kitchen with expressions that varied between murderous and worried. 

"What happened?!" 

"Is Stiles okay?" 

"Why did no one inform me?!" 

Being bombarded with all those emotional responses to the news, the Sheriff loosened his angry stance and rubbed his temples in frustration instead. 

The truth was that not even he as Stiles' father knew what was going on. When he had come home - which he immediately had after the investigation of the crime scene - the house had been empty, with no note informing him of his son's whereabouts. There were no signs of forced entry but it did smell like vomit in his son's room. 

"Well, he's not here, either, as you can see for yourself. Did you call him?" Peter asked, seeing as he was the only one that had managed to keep his composure. 

Isaac was biting his nails anxiously, Malia was running around in circles and Derek was still ringing up his betas to ask them if they knew anything. 

Jon Stilinski grimaced. "I must have lost it in my haste to... I don't know. No, I haven't. I have no phone." 

Peter nodded, fished his own cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Malia who immediately calmed down a bit after having been given a task. 

"While we're asking around for Stiles' whereabouts, why don't you tell us what has gotten you so worked up in the first place? Surely you're not this frantic because your teenaged son snuck out of the house in the middle of the night?" Peter sat down at the kitchen table and looked expectedly up at the Sheriff, eyebrows raised. 

"He's not dead," the Sheriff stated quietly, causing every person in the room to freeze. They all knew who he was talking about. "He's back and he left a message for Stiles." 

That said, he showed them a photograph of the crime scene, breaking all the rules once again. 

***

"You know that I technically don't even have a license, right?" 

Stiles raised his eyebrows, holding on to Burly a little tighter as they cut the next curve a little too fast for his comfort. "Oh, really. I couldn't tell." 

Cora took her eyes off the road and turned her attention to him which was even more unsettling. "How are you doing, anyway? You look awful." 

He was sickly pale, his eyes still a little red and his lips were chapped. The hand which kept stroking Burly's fur was shaking ever so slightly, the other was cradled underneath Burly's paws as if he was trying to hide it. 

She wasn't sure what had happened to him. On the phone, his voice had been hoarse and scratchy so she hadn't even doubted for a second that he was sick when he had given her that explanation. But the panicked expression in his eyes told her that there was more to it. 

The chemosignal of fear had been an overwhelmingly strong scent in his room. 

His eyes closed, he took a deep breath to soothe his nausea. "I'm okay. Just a cold, I guess. It happens to us humans." 

His heartbeat was thumping wildly but it had been doing that ever since she had picked him up so she wasn't sure if he was lying. There was no obvious blip but he could be telling half-truths. 

She didn't bother badgering him with more questions, though, because they had already reached the Hale House by then. 

The police cruiser parked in the middle of their driveway made it obvious that the person driving it hadn't had any time or patience to park it properly. The Sheriff must have been in a panic. 

"They're all here," Cora whispered, suppressing the urge to hit her head on the steering wheel for not thinking about that. "I can smell their panic and worry even from here. Stiles, they're already organizing search parties for you." 

Her passenger groaned in response. "I left my dad a note on the fridge!" 

The whirlwind of negative emotions in the air made Cora a little uneasy herself so she started to drum her fingers against the steering wheel. 

"I think I should go in and tell them you're here. Besides, I don't think you can walk on your own. I mean, I could carry you..." She trailed off, already knowing what his reaction might be. 

Stiles rolled his eyes which were still closed so the effect was lost on her. "Fine. Go in there and calm their nerves. I'll wait here. Maybe the queasiness will quiet down a bit in the meantime." 

She handed him a plastic bag - just in case he had to throw up again - and opened a window so he could get a bit of fresh air while he was waiting. Then she took in a deep breath and exited the car, ready to face the room full of overemotional people. 

*** **warning:** _potentially scary content from here on_ ***

Burly was beginning to get fuzzy soon after Cora had left. He had never liked to be caged into a small room and Cora's car was even smaller than what he was used to. The open window didn't seem to calm him enough, even though he was already sticking his head out of it. 

The animal was fidgeting on Stiles' lap, kicking Stiles in the guts every so often which did not help his already queasy stomach. 

"Fine," Stiles huffed in defeat and rolled the window down completely so Burly could fit through it. "You can wait outside." 

Burly bumped his snout against Stiles' cheek in gratitude, then he hopped in one smooth jump out of the window, presumably guarding the car outside. 

Now that he was completely alone, he couldn't avoid looking at his left palm any longer. 

It didn't so much hurt as it just stung in a very uncomfortable way. The black lines had faded in intensity but were still very much there and a stark contrast to his otherwise pale skin. 

The veins near the black lines were slightly tinged in black as well, almost as if the sickness had dispersed like ink on a paper. 

Anguished because of the sight, he balled his hand into a fist and hit the dashboard with it. He barely felt the pain.

His emotional outbreak did, however, manage to rattle Laura's old car which in turned caused the sun visors to come down and the rearview mirror to vibrate. 

He sighed and reached out a hand to correct his mistake when he suddenly spotted a smudge of black behind his head in the mirror. The darkness in the car made it hard to decipher the silhouette but it eerily resembled a person sitting in the back seat just behind him. 

Startled, he snapped the visor back up where it belonged, telling himself that he was just imagining things. 

His hands were shaking when he reached over to the driver's visor, concentrating so that he wouldn't look into the rearview mirror by accident. 

It took him every ounce of self-control to accomplish the task since every instinct in his body screamed "danger!" and fear was causing goosebumps to break out on his skin. 

His eyes were closed when he slowly sunk himself back on his seat. He made the mistake to think that the danger was over then, because he opened his eyes which almost instinctually went to the rearview mirror. 

Then his heart nearly stopped at the sight. 

He tried to back away, but his seat was caging him in. 

She held his gaze through the mirror but he wished he could look away. 

"No, no _nononononononono_..." 

He tried to open the car door but at the same time, he heard the click that signaled that the car was locked. 

Now desperate, he rattled the door handle but it wouldn't budge. He tried to unlock it, but it was like the system had shut down all of a sudden. 

He was trapped. 

With her on the back seat, still watching him through the mirror. 

"Let me go!" he screamed, kicking the door. His limbs were shaking so badly, he hit part of the dashboard instead of the door. 

Half her face was decayed, worms and maggots crawling out of the holes, some vanished into her eye socket. The other half was smiling at him. 

Sweat had broken out on his forehead, dripping down his temples and hanging off his chin, the drops still contemplating whether to fall down or not. 

His vision was getting blurry because of the desperate tears forming in his eyes and the shortage of air he was taking in. But he could still see her. 

He could still see her. 

But, worst of all, she could still see him. 

"I want out. I need to get out. Out," he mumbled hurriedly to himself, directing his jittery limbs to the window. 

Suddenly he remembered the open window so he stretched out his hand. 

He threw a quick glance at the mirror, seeing her grin widening. 

He had to hurry. 

Hurry. 

Why couldn't he find the door handle?!

Then something began to move. At first, he thought he had imagined it but when the space for his arm grew smaller, he knew. 

The window was closing itself. 

He grew frantic in his search, his arm just swinging around wildly outside. 

Then he was stuck but still, the window continued to close itself. 

He tried to get his arm out but it was hopeless. 

Next, he began to register the pain of the window slicing into his skin, pressing into him with terrifying, bone-crushing strength. 

A look back into the mirror. Her mouth was forming words that only reached him when he had finally found the door handle. 

_"Don't leave me again. Stay with me."_

His hand got a grip on the door handle and he pulled on it with all his might. 

The bones in his arm made an ugly cracking sound, a sign that they couldn't stand the pressure any longer. 

But then he managed to open the door. 

He fell out of the car, his arm twisting at a painful angle. 

It was like he broke the spell because then the window stopped going up and he could finally wiggle himself free of it. 

He didn't even notice that he scraped his skin off. 

He didn't notice that footsteps were coming closer to where he was sitting on the ground. 

All he thought of was getting away as far from the car as possible, not caring if he had to crawl on his knees to accomplish that. 

His arm hurt. 

The world was spinning. 

And when someone called out his name in worry and a face appeared in his sight, all he managed was to open his mouth to puke. 

*** _potentially scary content is now over_ ***

Ignoring the puke that was coating his shoes and parts of his black jeans, Derek crouched down, taking Stiles' face into his hands. The warmth radiating from it made him worry even more. 

The teenager was barely coherent but still conscious. 

"Fever," he stated for the audience witnessing the scene. Then he looked accusingly at Cora. "You shouldn't have left him alone." 

"Well, bringing him with me to face the storm would've been even worse. It's not like you all wouldn't have overwhelmed him," Cora defended herself grumpily but despite her pout, there was a glimmer of guilt visible in her features. 

Derek sighed, picked up Stiles and carried him inside. 

His fever broke in the early morning hours - somewhere around 4 o'clock if someone were to ask Derek for a more specific time - but that didn't ease their worry. Seeing the 102.2 F drop down to a 99,8 F had been a relief but it could never erase the hours of tension that came from listening to a delirious teenager mumbling about seeing his worst nightmares coming to life in front of his eyes without being able to tell him that none of it was real. 

That was probably why Jon had to leave the room after an hour of sitting and listening. Once Stiles had mentioned his mom, Jon's face had lost all color. It had only gotten worse when it became apparent that he wasn't having a happy dream about her. 

Not that Derek could blame the man. He too had found it hard to listen and to sit idly by while the boy was suffering in front of them. 

He made sure that the towel on his forehead was always cool, wetting it again every ten minutes or so. He sat by his side until the sun was beginning to rise, watching over him with a creased brow. Some might consider his action creepy - he just could imagine Stiles making a comment about him being like that dumb sparkly vampire in the twilight series who had no idea what personal boundaries even meant. 

His pack began to wake up somewhere between half-past seven and eight. Lydia was an early riser. He could hear her walking down the stairs before most of the others had even gotten up from bed yet. 

Jackson followed her soon after, probably having been listening in on her all morning to make sure she was alright. Ever since they weren't sharing a bedroom anymore, he had made it his habit to rise as early as she did, just so he could spend the quiet moments of the morning alone with her. It was obvious that he was doing his best to make up for his past mistakes. 

It was around that time that Stiles woke up for the first time. 

His eyelids fluttered, a groan. Followed by a twitch of his arm. A groan of pain this time. He then curled into a ball on his right side, cradling his left arm protectively. 

Derek reached out a tentative hand, not sure whether to wake the teen completely or just let him wake up on his own. His hand was hovering over his shoulder when suddenly he was met with honey-coloured eyes looking at him, wide-eyed. 

The alpha tried for a smile. "Hey," he breathed softly, reminding himself to speak quietly in case the teen was suffering from a headache. His hand finally came to rest on the teen's shoulder. 

"Derek?" Stiles blinked. His posture relaxed. His legs - drawn tightly to his body before - uncurled. 

One story below them, Derek could hear Isaac and Scott standing at the foot of the stairs, probably unsure whether they should come up and see how Stiles was doing before they left for school. 

The alpha knew that they weren't able to listen in on their conversation from below. That was precisely why Derek had taken the attic for his own quarters. More privacy. 

And more space, but that was beside the point. 

"Man, I feel awful," Stiles croaked out, rubbing his eyes that felt so raw as if he had cried tears of sand for a whole day. 

"You're sick," Derek deadpanned. As if Stiles hadn't already deduced that from his aching joints, scratchy throat, heavy muscles, stuffy nose, and hammering headache. 

"Was that diagnosis for free or do I have to pay for it?" 

"Since you're already back to being a smartass, I predict that you'll live." 

If his throat wouldn't have felt like sandpaper, Stiles might have made another witty comment but as it was, it was perhaps better to save his energy. 

Derek, probably sensing Stiles' discomfort, stood up from his seat beside the bed and went to the adjoining bathroom. 

It was then that Stiles realized that he had no idea where he was. 

The slanting ceiling indicated that he was in an attic of a sort but he had never seen one that big. Some apartments he'd been in hadn't been that spacious. 

Not to mention a number of skylights and side windows that let in enough sunshine to make the room (or rather apartment) seem cozy and  
inviting. 

He was currently in the bedroom but the room in itself was only divided by a large bookshelf - he couldn't see what was behind that, he only glimpsed that there was so much more space hiding on its other side. From his place on the bed, he was able to see into the adjoining bathroom where Derek had disappeared in. There was another door next to the bathroom door, which he guessed led to the closet. 

What was odd, however, was that large parts of the attic room were unfinished. There was hardly any furniture in here beside the bed and the bookshelf, the wall paneling only covered about a third of it yet while the rest of the walls were still naked. 

Derek returned with a glass of water which he handed to Stiles. Before Stiles was even able to protest, Derek pulled Stiles into a sitting position and stuffed another pillow behind his back so he had something to lean on. 

"Thanks," Stiles said after he had gulped down most of the water already. "Where am I by the way?" 

"In my room," came the answer. 

"Why?" 

Derek almost looked affronted, reacting as if Stiles had committed an act of indecency by asking that question. 

"Do you remember what happened yesterday? What stupid thing you did?" The alpha countered, his expression grave. 

At first, Stiles thought about what his current location was telling him. The light coming in through the windows told him that it was daytime - morning, perhaps. 

Despite the visual clues, he was pretty sure that he hadn't gone to bed at the Hale House, not to mention that he wouldn't have slept in Derek's bed even if that were the case. 

So why was he here? 

He tried to remember the last thing he had been doing yesterday. 

It came to him in bits and pieces. The picture was unclear like he was watching TV with bad reception. All the clearer was the panic. The fear. He remembered those quite vividly. 

What had the nightmare that had woken him up even been about? He couldn't recall. Last night, he could have written every detail of it down on paper. Now he came up blank. 

But- There was something else. 

He looked at his left hand and swallowed heavily. Remembered his shock, remembered calling Cora. 

Remembered driving past a house surrounded by police cruisers and immediately knowing what it had to mean. 

Remembered that he had sent a text message. What was written in it exactly? His phone would tell him that since his headache was blocking the details of the memory. 

Then he saw the wait in the car play out in his mind again. Remembered being trapped. Remembered what he had seen through the mirror. 

"-iles. Stiles!" Someone was shaking his shoulders roughly, urgently. His breathing was slightly accelerated, his heart thumping loudly against his ribcage. That must be why Derek was sounding so worried. 

Stiles shook his head to clear it of the thoughts haunting him. 

"I'm fine," he said, more reflex than truth.

It was useless, lying to a werewolf. 

"Whatever you think has happened in the car - it's not real. You had a fever, Stiles. You were hallucinating," Derek replied calmly. His hand was still resting on Stiles' shoulder like he was trying to ground him to reality. 

Stiles almost wanted to laugh at that. A werewolf telling him that what he had seen couldn't possibly be real? What a joke! 

"But this is," Stiles held out his left hand, the palm directed towards Derek. The sight of it caused the alpha to freeze. "Something happened last night. Something... bad. I don't know what yet. I only know that I'm involved, somehow." 

Derek encircled Stiles' wrist and brought the outstretched hand closer to his own face, inspecting the two lines of the scar that had turned a sickly black. 

With furrowed eyebrows, the alpha guided the teen's hand down to the bed but not letting go. In fact, he was gripping Stiles' hand like it was a lifeline. His whole posture screamed that he was about to burst with emotions that he refused to let come to the surface. 

"I'll tell you what I know," Derek decided reluctantly. 

He told Stiles about what the police had found yesterday- the man whose recovered corpse had started all this, who had even dead raised more questions than any normal case, once again in the center of an investigation. Stiles expectedly winced when Derek recounted how panicked the sheriff had been when he had arrived at the Hale House, thinking his son had been kidnapped or worse when he hadn't been able to find him. No one could blame the man for his overhasty conclusion, considering he had evidence of a dangerous man taunting him with the fact that he a.) was alive, and b.) still had a powerful leverage over them by knowing Stiles' first name. 

Derek almost wished he had never shared his knowledge when he realized how pale Stiles had become somewhere in the middle of his recount. 

"This isn't a coincidence. The body turning up, the message, the scars turning black... it's all connected," Stiles whispered, the gears in his head turning, worsening his headache. It felt like he was spinning around with one of the gears, too, and the nausea came back with vigor. 

He tried to stand up because the news was concerning and he needed something to do other than just lying lazily in bed. But his knees were weak and the pull of gravity seemed to be stronger than usual. The only reason why he didn't immediately collapse was because strong arms wrapped around his torso and pulled him back onto the bed just when his knees were about to give out. 

"First of all, you need rest," Derek insisted sharply. The look in his eyes was chastising and unforgiving. He wouldn't budge on that matter. 

Robbed of all energy, Stiles let himself sink back into the pillows. 

"But... School!" 

"Can go on without you." To underline how moot that argument was, the alpha took the liberty to even tuck him in, ignoring his protests and weak struggles. 

"What am I supposed to do?! I'm bored!" 

"Sleep," Derek stated, eyebrows raised. "You need all the rest you can get. Your dad will come over later and check on you. So you should probably be prepared to have a long and exhausting conversation." 

Stiles only groaned in response and hid his head under a pillow. 

***

When Stiles woke up for the second time, it was the early afternoon already and he couldn't remember why he had ever been afraid. 

In daylight, the shadows that had been monsters during the night weren't frightening anymore and the air was filled with so many noises that one particular creaking sound could hardly be distinguished from it. 

It was then that rationality kicked in again and Stiles had to admit that his alleged experience in the car could be easily explained by the fever that was wrecking his body and mind and the darkness that had the power to make every silhouette seem ominous. 

Plus, he had never actually seen her. He had only looked into the mirror, not brave enough to turn around. 

He kept telling himself logical explanations for what he had experienced and had already started to believe that it was just a hallucination when he became aware of the bandage on his left forearm. 

With the toothbrush still in his mouth, he bolted out of the bathroom, found Derek sitting in an old but rather large and cozy looking chair and limped as fast as his bad leg and the cane allowed over to him. 

He spurted out a garbled accusation and sent the alpha a glare. 

Derek, as calm as a cucumber, put his book down and wiped a hand across his face to get rid of the splashes of toothpaste Stiles had accidently spit in his face. 

"What." 

Frustrated because his clever threat hadn't reached its target, Stiles raced back into the bathroom, spit out the toothpaste, pointedly avoided to look into the mirror and darted back into the room like a man fleeing from his worst nightmare. 

"If everything has been just my imagination, then what the hell is this, huh?" Stiles asked, in an almost hysterically shrill voice, pointing at the bandage. Before Derek could stop him, he ripped the bandage off and took a look at what was underneath. 

There was a clear thin purple line where the window had pressed down on his arm, the area around it slightly yellow and red. 

"Stiles, it was just a hallucination. But the panic was real," Derek said. He stood up from his seat and went to get new implements to care for Stiles' injury. 

Stiles retracted his arm, keeping it defensively away from Derek. His gaze was heated with rage and indignation. "So you're saying I panicked because of nothing, got myself stuck in the window _and_ was dumb enough to keep winding the window up and thus nearly breaking my arm?!" 

"No. I'm saying that you tried to get away and probably couldn't open the door so you went for the window instead. You weren't completely in your right mind which is understandable. There's nothing stupid about it." 

Derek's words didn't have as placating an effect on Stiles as he had hoped. Instead, they seemed to make the teenager even more defensive, causing him to take a few steps back and away from the alpha. 

"Of course there is! Everything is stupid about it! Thinking that it was real in the first place when every ounce of logic should have expelled the very idea...," he couldn't bring himself to say the words he was thinking. _The very idea that my mom is still here_. "And there were so many other ways. I have magic, for god's sake! Why didn't I use it?" 

Derek understood then that Stiles was partly ashamed for his reaction and also very tired of being the one that needed rescuing. Since he had been so busy establishing himself as independent from the pack in the last month, it must be hard to swallow that he had appeared so helpless right in front of them. 

"I don't think Laura's old Toyota corolla would've withstood your sparks so for the sake of her car she's probably glad that you didn't use them," Derek mused, a tad bit of amusement breaking through his stoic exterior. 

Stiles looked like he was trying really hard to focus on the negative aspects of the incident but was already losing the battle. Eventually, his shoulder sagged slightly, giving up their tension-filled stance, and a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

"I bet she's the shame of the family, driving around a car like that." 

Derek nodded, not breaking his serious expression. "Peter and I are already planning to stage an intervention. It can't go on like this. We have a reputation to lose, after all." 

Stiles tried to smile but all he managed was a sigh. He eyed his cane with narrowed eyes and wished things were different. "God, I miss Roscoe." 

Going by his slightly shaking hands and the way he was leaning more on his cane than holding his own weight, Derek assumed that throwing a racket had tired the teenager out. Maybe he had needed to blow off some steam but he was still sick so it was probably time to let him rest some more. With that in mind, Derek stirred Stiles in the direction of the chair and pressed him down on it. 

Surprisingly, the teen let it happen without complaint. 

"Wow, that chair is comfortable," Stiles murmured, closing his eyes as he leaned back. If he had to choose one piece of furniture he wanted to spend his last five minutes on earth in, it'd be that chair. He felt something poking him in the hip and reached for it. It was the book Derek had been reading before he had spit toothpaste on his face. 

" _Devided by Four_. Oh, it's the first part of a series. What is it about?" he asked as he read the small extract from the book on the back of the cover. 

All he gathered was that it was a kind of fantasy series, taking place in a fictional universe where the world was parted into four kingdoms: The kingdom of hearts, the kingdom of diamonds, the kingdom of clubs and the kingdom of spades in which the first story was taking place in. 

"I just started it," Derek said. Instead of saying anything more about its content, he just pushed Stiles gently to the side to make some room for himself on the chair. It was a tight fit, but not uncomfortably so. Quite the opposite. Stiles' legs were once again resting on Derek's lap, soothing the soreness in his bad leg, his feet dangling slightly over the armrest of the chair. "Starting over again doesn't really bother me at this point." 

That's how they ended up reading together, the afternoon sun coming in through the windows spreading warmth. From outside, Stiles could hear sounds that resembled a lot the barking of a happy dog. Looking out of the window, he realized that it was Malia in her coyote form, frolicking around with Burly in the garden. 

Somewhere in the middle of the sixth chapter, he fell asleep again to fingers running gently through his hair, his head resting on Derek's shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything you need to know if you skipped: Stiles gets terrified of what he thinks he sees in the car through the rearview mirror and wants out but it appears that he is stuck. His arms nearly gets squashed by the closing window but he manages to get himself free and out of the car. That's when Derek finds him. 
> 
>  
> 
> The reason why I give these warnings that may seem excessive to you is that I have a friend that gets easily scared and I know how hard it is to sleep when those thoughts won't leave you alone. I have suffered many sleepless nights myself because of my vivid imagination so I don't want to be the cause of the same happening to any of you. Please be safe :). 
> 
> Also, updates will probably be very irregular and with long pauses in between because I'm rather stressed right now with my entrance exam and the beginning of my time at university. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. I'll see you next chapter, guys!


	6. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about the Sheriff's background, Malia finally gets her reward for getting a handle on her shift, Derek discovers that his family hadn't left him completely unprepared, and Jordan reveals to Stiles why he's really here.

When Stiles woke up for the third time, his left leg was hanging off of the bed, his toes digging into the carpet. His right leg was propped up on the bed post in a way that should actually hurt but the teenager made it look somehow comfortable. His head was hidden under a pillow in the middle of the bed, one arm slung around it, the other pressed to his back like a ghost cop was trying to arrest him. 

It wasn't that weird position that awoke him, though. 

He woke up because something was tickling his sides, along with the warm rays of sunshine coming in through the windows. 

Even though he didn't want to, his eyes opened and then closed immediately again, blinded by the light. 

Blindly, he pawed at whatever was disturbing his sleep, grunting a jumble of words that probably didn't make any sense. 

The tickler was persistent, though. 

Admitting defeat, Stiles rolled onto his side and opened his eyes again, searching for the disturber. 

Burly's glare was the first thing he registered. The animal used his moment of perplexion and jumped none too gently onto his chest, starting a groan out of his human. 

"I'll get up, I'll get up, okay? Jeez," Stiles huffed, shoving the little fox off of himself. He sat up and ruffled through his sleep-mussed hair, suppressing a yawn. 

He couldn't remember a time where he had last had such a peaceful sleep. 

Even the thought of it awoke in him the yearning to cuddle back into the pillows and sleep for another ten years or so. 

At Burly's warning gaze, he discarded that thought and got up to go to the bathroom and get ready. 

Suddenly, he became aware that he wasn't in his own room and then he started to remember where he was. 

He walked past the bookshelf that was double-functioning as a room divider and took a look at the large space behind it. 

The room looked naked since there was only a comfy-looking and oddly spacious chair placed in front of the window front. The wall wasn't even painted entirely, only parts of it covered in a creamy yellow that would probably make the room even more inviting than the large windows already did. 

"So this is where he hides," Stiles mumbled to himself. "No wonder he doesn't want to come down much." 

Derek had never allowed anyone of the pack to enter his private quarters, the only exception being in a case of emergency so no one had ever seen where he was sleeping. Malia had probably been up here as well, but she didn't really count. Rules were only a vague guideline in her mind so she liked to bend and break them at her convenience. 

And Derek could never get really mad at her, no matter how hard he tried. 

Shaking his head with a small smile, Stiles opened the door which he assumed led to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and went through his usual routine. He took a quick shower. changed into new clothes which Derek must have brought up from his own closet one story below him (it was then that he registered that he was dressed in a shirt that was most definitely not his, seeing as it was too big for him) and tried to wrestle his wild hair into submission. 

One of his newer habits was also not absent; He avoided looking into the mirror. But he tried to ignore that. It's not like he needed to acknowledge all of his habits, right? No justification needed. Some people need to dance during their morning routine. Some only need coffee. He needed to avoid looking into a mirror for too long. 

But not even following through with his morning ritual could calm him down enough to be ready for the conversation with his dad that awaited him downstairs. 

He was drawn into a fierce hug before he could even say a word. The sheriff's arms were holding on to him like he could disappear any minute now. 

"God, kid. You had me worried," his father said, equally scolding him as he was expressing his relief. 

"I left you a message dad," Stiles reminded him, trying to break free from the smothering hug. "On the fridge. How could you not see it?" 

"You did?" The sheriff didn't look convinced, not considering it possible that he would miss such a vital clue to where his son was. "Can't be. I would've seen - it doesn't matter now, anyway. What interests me is why you felt the need to flee the house in the middle of the night." 

"I got sick," Stiles explained and shrugged. "So I called Cora." 

But he didn't only call Cora. He remembered it now. 

The sheriff put on a strict expression, one he usually used when he was interrogating someone. "You called someone without a driving license so they would come get you?" 

Stiles winced slightly. "Yeah, not my best decision. But to Cora's defense- she broke no laws! She didn't drive over the speed limit!" 

Jon just sighed and shook his head, obviously deeming that topic as fruitless to further discuss. 

"Where have you been anyway?" Stiles decided to turn the tables. "Weren't you supposed to have the night off?" 

The sheriff froze, then his eyes narrowed. He turned around as if the traitor was standing right behind him, which of course he wasn't. Derek was somewhere in the house, doing whatever he did when all his betas were in school. 

The only one witnessing their conversation was Peter who was idly sitting on the couch, pretending to read a book. He even flipped the pages from time to time for show, though he was obviously listening to them. 

"You know," Jon stated, his mouth going dry. 

"Wasn't I supposed to?" Stiles countered, feeling defensive already. He certainly wouldn't stand to be left out of important information, not even if his dad deemed it safer for him. 

"Don't do that. Don't blame me for something I haven't even done yet." His dad was looking at him warningly. "I was planning to tell you. On my own terms but I was going to tell you." 

"All of it?" Stiles challenged. 

"Yes, Stiles" his dad stressed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "I'm your father, I wouldn't do that to you. I want you safe. So why shouldn't I tell you what you need to be aware of? You should've trusted me." 

"Trusted you!" Stiles repeated incredulously. He couldn't believe his father had thrown the word trust in his face like he was the one who had betrayed him. "How can I? I don't even know who you are anymore! And who I am. Maybe everything I thought was true is actually a lie? I can't even trust my memories! So how do you expect me to trust you?!" 

"Stiles," his dad said, sorrow written all over his face. 

"No!" Stiles took one step back. "Don't try to calm me down! There is nothing to be calm about! Nothing! You know why I thought you wouldn't tell me? Because you never talk about these things with me. You never talk about her. Or what happened to her. And that was fine - because I didn't want to talk about it either. But not anymore. We never really talked." Stiles shook his head as his father opened his mouth to object. "No, we never really _talked_. When I was little I asked a lot of questions. About mom's language. About yours. About why you could speak it but our neighbors couldn't. I asked about my grandparents. And you always said, _"We'll tell you when you're older, when you're able to understand it"_. But you never did. I learned about it almost by accident. I learned that you're Polish and wondered why you tried to erase that part of yourself. I wondered why you never spoke polish, only mom did. I wondered why you never told me what your childhood was like. All I know now is what I've learned by accident and what the book has told me. But I need more than that! I want to know who you are. So I can understand who I am." 

Stiles was heaving at the end of his rant, long suppressed rage coming back to the surface. His father was eyeing him warily, stunned at the subject. 

"Stiles, son..." the sheriff was obviously grasping for words. " I wasn't aware - Where did all of this come from? Of course you know me. The memories she has taken from you aside, I've always been honest with you. I promise you that." 

"Yeah?" Stiles questioned, his voice cracking slightly over the word. "That's not enough. That's not nearly enough." 

"What else do you need?" His dad honest to god had no clue. "Tell me. Please. You need to tell me so I can fix this." 

"Dad, there's someone out there who is threatening me because of who I am. And that quote - it means that he knows my name but I don't know his which gives him power over me. He probably knows more about me than I do. I don't even know who my grandparents are! I don't know much about your family and only little about mom's. Like, is the spark genetic? Did everyone in her family have it? How does it manifest? When did you find out? What urged you both to take so many precautions? Was there a threat before I was even born? Did mom know what was happening to her? I have so many questions! I want to understand, don't you get it? I want to understand my background, my name, everything! Because, right now, I don't. But I feel like I should." 

Ever since his mom died, it had been like his polish background had been erased with her. He was no longer "słoneczko", or "iskra". No one left to sing him polish lullabies, to tell him about the beauty of the land he had been born in. His heritage was buried with her. His polish part had been erased, leaving him feeling like a tree cut off of its roots. 

His dad, though, seemed to recognize these feelings, because he was looking at his son like he was seeing a younger version of himself. Then he nodded slowly. 

"C'mon. There's something I need to show you." 

***

Back at home found them both sitting on the couch, the older Stilinski with a huge photo album lying open on his lap and his son looking down at the pictures in it with a mixture of awe and sadness. 

"That man right there," Jon pointed at the young man depicted in the black and white, slightly wrinkled photograph. He couldn't be older than 15 but the expression he was wearing gave him an already jaded and phlegmatic look. Like he had seen more than anyone his age should have. "That's Lucjan Stilinski. My father." 

And now he could see it. The had the same jawline, the same ears. The resemblance was startling, now that he knew what to look for. 

"What happened to him?" Stiles asked, more subdued than usual. 

The Sheriff sighed. "He was born in 1929 in Puławy, which had been militarily very important in the Soviet-Polish-War. Its people had been very proud, you see, of their part in the war, especially since it ended with a victory on their side. I didn't grow up there, of course, but I imagine that the victory had great influence on my father's family. The Stilinski's were military men through generations. They were proud to protect the country. My father grew up believing that making the decision to fight was already half the victory." 

From the resigned look in his dad's eyes, Stiles knew that something must have changed his grandfather's mind. And he was almost sure that he knew the reason why. 

"But then, in 1939, the Germans invaded and brought destruction, loss, and cruelty with them. And the city that was once proud of their victory was brought to its knees.  
As far as I know, there were three concentration camps in Puławy alone. The Jewish population was eradicated. It was horrible. My grandparents, uncles... They all died. The only survivor was my father. He was old enough to be of use and young enough to withstand the cruel treatment in the camps." 

Jon pointed at a younger boy, maybe around the age of three, and a girl around the age of twelve. They had to be his grandfather's siblings. Stiles looked at the photograph, at their young and innocent faces and shuddered at the thought that they had died in a time when humanity was at one of its lower points. They would never know that it would get better. And worse. And better again. 

"He was rescued by the Red Army - the Russians. Imagine his conflicted feelings. He was rescued by the enemy - by the ones he had been taught to hate. And thus he had lost his faith in the country he had grown up to love, to protect. He thought that his country had betrayed him - abandoned their people when they were in need. Which was not true, of course. Many were freed by the Home Army but he didn't know that. He got in contact with a family's friend in America, and eventually, they adopted him. He left his country behind and tried to blend in - become completely American." 

Jon flipped a page in the album and revealed a photograph of a boy, holding the American flag proudly in his hand. A normal picture of a true American. 

"He spent the rest of his childhood in Lousiana and never looked back. He never spoke Polish again, hated people that called him out on his accent with a passion and became deeply patriotic. Also racist. He was a hypocrite and probably felt that way too. So he joined the army, demonstrating that he was one of them - more because he needed to prove it to himself than to others, I assume." 

The next photo showed a young man in military gear, looking completely serious and stiff. His lips were thin, his gaze sharp. He was the epitome of the perfect soldier, at least regarding his looks. 

"I was never very close to my father. The war changed him like it changes every man. But I think what really broke him was the uncertainty about what he was even fighting for. He probably thought he would find out on the battlefield. I'm not sure if he ever did.  
Like him, I joined the army. That's just how I was raised. And just like him, I wasn't sure what I was fighting for. Don't get me wrong. I love America. It's my home. And to die for it is an honor, a great deed.  
But I felt incomplete without knowing my background. So when I was 18, I became really interested in Polish politics, even as a US soldier. And I felt this longing to see all of it with my own eyes. It was 1983, the Polish Crisis was over and the martial law formally ended. There was change and I wanted to see it with my own eyes. So in 1986, when a general amnesty was declared, I got the opportunity to be stationed in Poland and I took it. My father wasn't happy about it, but as long as I was serving our country he could hardly talk me out of it. The problem was that once I was there I didn't want to leave. So I stayed. I learned their language, the culture. And finally, I felt whole. Like I finally knew myself. I wrote a letter to my father, telling him how happy I was and that I finally understood my heritage. His lawyer sent me a document that stated formally that he had disowned me." 

Stiles gulped. "Just because you went back to his home country?" 

Jon looked heavily at an old family picture with him standing in front of his parents. His father had a protective hand lying on his shoulder that was meant to show his pride. In Jon's eyes, it looked like his father was guiding him in the direction he wanted his son to go, keeping him from straying away from the path he had already chosen for him. 

"He never spoke to me again. He probably thought that the document would finally wake me up from my delusions. That I would come home and apologize to him for betraying him like that. And I probably would've. My father was an intimidating man, Stiles, and I had always strived to please him.  
But then I met you mother and my goals changed. It was 1988, I was at a Student Protest to keep the peace, she was there to disturb it. She came from a poor family, was wearing clothes that were too big for her but she was strong-minded and fought like she was a force of nature. She believed in all the good things I thought were just illusions, even if she had been proven wrong so many times already. And she became home." 

There was a fond smile on his father's lips and a melancholic longing in his eyes. An expression that was always brought forth by the mention of Claudia. 

On the next photograph was his mom, looking so incredibly young and beautiful that Stiles had to hold his breath for a moment. She couldn't be much older in the picture than himself. Standing next to her - so taken in with the girl beside him that he was looking more at her than at the camera - was his dad, looking like the complete opposite of himself in the picture of before. 

"Your mother was the one who taught me that we don't belong to a place. We belong to people. We belong to beliefs. That is what home is. That is what we should fight for. So she urged me to reconcile with my father, even more so after her father - her only remaining family - had died. So we went back to America together, she acquired citizenship, changed her name and married me." 

The smile grew heartbreakingly bigger. Then it faltered as he remembered how the story continued

"My father refused to come to our wedding. Claudia was the representation of everything he had left behind and chosen to forget and me marrying her was probably the greatest betrayal I could commit in his eyes. He didn't even respond when Claudia reached out to him to tell him that he was becoming a grandfather. He died when you were three without ever meeting you, robbing you of a grandfather just because he couldn't forgive. And I swore never to be like him, I swore to be a better father to you." 

"And you are," Stiles said, full of conviction. "You are, dad." 

The Sheriff closed the heavy album on his lap and shook his head slowly. "We can't escape who we are. I am my father's son, after all. And that's why I made the same mistakes." 

"So when mom died, you locked up the polish part of you. Just like your father had done," Stiles realized. 

"I always thought I would never become like my father. That I knew better. But now, look at me. Look at us. I should've never denied you learning about your roots. I was the one who needed to learn about them in order to grow, after all," Jon said in a low voice, clearly ashamed of himself. 

Stiles threw his arms over his dad's shoulders and hugged him tightly. "We'll just have to work on that. Just like you promised me in the hospital. We have to learn how to talk. _Really_ talk." 

Stunned at the reaction, it took Jon a little while to reciprocate the hug. When he did, his hand was cupping his son's neck protectively. "We'll work on it," he agreed wholeheartedly. 

***

After Stiles had fallen asleep - and appeared to sleep peacefully this time - Derek had tucked him back into bed and put the book away. He himself had slept in the chair that night. 

He had woken up before Stiles. Snorting at the weird position the boy had chosen to sleep in, Derek had left the room and walked downstairs to get his first and very much needed dose of coffee. 

When the sheriff arrived, he quickly greeted him and told him that Stiles was still sleeping. The man was disgruntled at first - since he had told him the same thing when the man had been over the day before - but he soon seemed to realize that his son needed to catch up on a lot of sleep. 

Derek had left him in Peter's care, thinking that it was probably alright to leave those two alone. He wasn't completely sure of that, though, because Peter always seemed to know which buttons to press in order to raise the Sheriff's blood pressure. One of these days, Peter might end up with a wolfsbane bullet embedded in his ass. 

But listening to his uncle's weird attempts at flirting weirded him out, so he was willing to take that risk. 

He had work to do, anyway. 

Immediately after Laura had told him about them he had dug up the alpha memoirs of his family, which had to be passed down to every generation. Every alpha had to write about his or her experiences and his or her life in the pack so that it could serve as a guideline to the next in line. Derek now knew that his mom had collected all of them in the library. From Laura's tellings there had to have been about 100 books. 

Not all of them had survived the fire, though. 

And out of the 40 or so which did, not all of them were readable. Or were written in a way so that he could hardly comprehend it. 

One alpha in particular in his long family tree had been horribly illiterate. His sentences were confusing, most words were spelled incorrectly and his grammar was atrocious. And of course, that was one of the books that had survived. That was just Derek's luck. 

He had been looking through the books for the past few days, ever since he had found out about the arrival of The Order. 

He had learned many things from the memoirs. 

Like the fact that Alpha Erek Albert Hale had been a narcissistic, ignorant bastard who couldn't write a sentence without pronouns referring to his own magnificent self and without insulting someone else if his life depended on it. He also never came to a point, going on and on and on and _on_ about silly details just to report how one of his packmates had dared to wash his clothing in a way that completely ruined it. 

Considering the amount of useless information he had come across in his search, his respect for Stiles doing all the research for them had grown immensely. He had begun wondering if he should ask Stiles for tips on how to filter important information from utter rubbish. 

Eventually, his hard work paid off and he found some recounts of the pack coming in contact with The Order, as short and unspecific as they were. 

The first entry mentioning them chronically he found in Alpha Cecily Rue Hale's memoir and it read:

_The intruders - The Order, as they call themselves - turned out to have no intention of harming the pack but if they are trustworthy is still unsure. Their interest in us seems to be almost non-existent but it's hard to believe that their only goal is to keep balance. They aim to keep the supernatural world a secret from humans but it is hard to believe that they are able to do so without killing those who don't agree with their methods and rules. I'm trying to reach out to other packs in order to gain more information about them. It is my duty as the Alpha to make sure they don't pose a threat to my pack._

Alpha Cecily Rue Hale's memoir had to be one of the oldest that still existed. It was dated somewhere around the 18th century. 

There was another entry, written by Alpha Rowan Jasper Hale, from 1864, which stated the following:  
_...but nothing could be as vicious as The Order once they felt the need to act. Many tales about them I never believed because of the bloodthirsty depiction of them people but now I don't doubt their credibility anymore. I've seen with my own eyes how they eradicated a whole pack because of stupid old Jeremiah Landry's belief that werewolves are meant to be socially above the human race. Some I've talked to say that Landry had stricken a deal with an evil witch. I'll never know. But I sure won't ever forget the punishment his whole pack had to face..._

The last one he had found yet was by his mother. Laura had thankfully taken the memoir with her after the fire so it hadn't been harmed. 

_No matter how many times I've read about them, meeting The Order in person was nothing like I had ever imagined. The first thing that surprised me was their leader: A kitsune, a woman. Apparently, The Order was a matriarchy. She introduced herself as Momoko Yukimura to me and she seemed very well-spoken and polite. But there was a hardness in her eyes that warned me not to be deceived by her slight appearance. And her powers demonstrated that it was better not to underestimate her._  
_She was old, though, so I believe she was already training her successor; a young woman - most likely her daughter - who was trailing behind her like a bodyguard, never leaving her side._  
_They asked me if I was aware that there was a magical source on my territory - they called it the nemeton. I said that I wasn't aware._  
_I'm almost certain that she didn't believe me. Kitsunes don't have as good a hearing as werewolves. They rely too heavily on their sight and their sense of touch. So she probably couldn't listen to my heartbeat to find out whether I was lying or not. If there are other ways she used in order to detect a lie, I don't know. She should have found nothing for I was telling the truth._  
_If I had known about something as powerful as the nemeton being part of my territory, I would've taken better care of it. It's the duty of every Hale Alpha to protect whatever and whoever belongs in their territory, after all. But I refrained from telling her so since it would have implied that I have a claim to the nemeton. Since she seemed so interested in it, I didn't want to appear like I was as well. It would have only led to war._

Derek made a copy of every entry he considered useful and sent them all to Jackson. 

***

Eavesdropping was one of Peter Hale's favorite past times. Sometimes, it brought him more trouble than fun, though. 

Listening in on Stiles' conversation with his father had awakened an unpleasant feeling in Peter; guilt. 

Because he saw himself having a similar conversation in the future with his own daughter. 

When would she realize that in order for her to exist at all, she had to have been born? When would she start to ask questions about her mother? 

Peter wasn't ready to answer them yet. 

But now that he had been made aware of the potential source of conflict, he was feeling restless. 

It was time to prepare for the occasion this question should arise sooner than he had expected. 

So by the time Malia came running into the kitchen for lunch, he had already come up with a compensation for all the unasked questions he wasn't yet able to answer. 

"Sit down while you're eating," he said as she grabbed the sandwich from the plate. She looked caught off guard, her expression clearly saying 'how did you know?'. She grumbled in annoyance, but put the sandwich back on the plate, took it and sat down with it at the kitchen island. 

"That's a stupid rule." 

Peter raised his eyebrows. "You're supposed to chew your food and not gobble it down. You have time. No one here will steal your food." 

She rolled her eyes at him but nevertheless made a huge show of chewing very slowly. 

"Derek told me that your training is going well. I also haven't forgotten about your excellent control on the night of the Blood Moon. And so I've decided that a reward is in order," Peter announced. 

Malia almost spat out the bite she had been chewing on in excitement. "Really? What is it? Can I go to school now?" 

Peter was leaning casually against the kitchen counter as he was watching her reaction, looking vaguely amused. "First of all, you were always able to go to school - I have never questioned your ability to use your legs. What is uncertain as of now is whether you're ready to go to school yet." 

The young were-coyote let the sandwich fall back on the plate, her eyes narrowed in disgruntlement. "I thought I was doing good?!" she complained. 

"Well, not good. You're not helping the needy or solving world hunger, are you? You're not describing yourself but your action, hence the adverb. The distinction is important." 

He got a growl in response. 

"The annoying action of correcting people's grammar. Now I described the action and used an adjective. Take that!" She grinned triumphantly. 

"The action is the object in that sentence and describing it requires the use of an adjective. The action in the sentence as in the verb is 'correcting' in this case. So to use an adverb correctly the sentence would become, _'The annoying action of smoothly correcting people's grammar.'_. And yes, that's what I do. You're welcome." 

Malia growled again, threw her father a glare and then shoved another bite of the sandwich into her mouth in a way that could only be described as defiant. It was so very amusing to watch. 

"I don't understand for the life of me why you're so keen on going to school if you hate being told you're wrong so much," Peter mused. 

"My teachers at least won't get some kind of sick amusement out of it," she grumbled in answer. 

Peter couldn't help but laugh at that. "Oh, baby, you've truly never been to Middle School before. And it only gets worse once you're in High School!" 

Malia just shoved the rest of the sandwich in her mouth and was about to hop off her chair when Peter stopped laughing and rested a hand on her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to mock you." Oh, he wasn't sorry, Malia knew that much. "Now, don't you want to hear what your reward is?" 

His daughter continued to chew on the overlarge rest of the sandwich, looking like a hamster. She was looking expectantly at him. 

"What do you think of enrolling into a ballet class for a start? Or a swim class, if ballet doesn't appeal to you? Maybe even joining a Baseball team. Or anything, really" Peter said slowly, gauging her reaction. 

Malia never stopped chewing and this time, she was chewing maddingly slowly. She could be such a brat, sometimes. 

She obviously took after her father. 

After she had finally swallowed, she looked at him and said decisively, "I'd like to try ballet." 

Peter had a hard time concealing his surprise. He only allowed himself to grin smugly while he was pressing a kiss on his daughter's wild mane. 

***

Later that day, Stiles rushed to be punctual for his first physical therapy session with Jordan. 

Who was also the person he had texted after he had just woken up from his nightmare. 

To his relief, he hadn't texted something completely ridiculous or embarrassing. 

His exact words were, _I need to know where you got the special ingredient for the ointment from and how it exactly works._

He hadn't signed with his name so he probably would have just discarded the message because of his anonymity if it weren't for the fact that Jordan had actually answered him. 

_I'll see you on Friday. :)_

And yes, the man had used an emoji. 

So now here he was, standing in front of the house where his dad had dropped him off, not sure if he should knock on the door or just turn around and go home. 

But a voice in the back of his head reminded him that he needed to attend this session in order to get the keys to his baby back. So really, what choice did he have? 

His knock was immediately answered by the sound of footsteps coming towards the door. When the door opened, he had to look down to actually smile at the person waiting on the other side. 

The little Asian girl - probably around the age of ten, though it was hard to say - smiled shyly at him. "Please come in, sir." 

"Thanks," Stiles said, following her inside the house. It wasn't more than a bungalow, really, though it was more spacious than it had appeared to be from outside. 

"Are you Stiles?" the girl asked him, her arms crossed behind her back. Her long, silky black hair fell like a veil over her face and hid most of it from view. She was adorable. 

"Yeah, that's me. And who are you?" 

"Kira," she mumbled, her eyes cast to the floor. 

"Kira!" Jordan came jogging towards them. He immediately scooped the skinny girl into his arms and shook his head at her. "How many times have I told you that you shouldn't answer the door? You never know who's standing outside!" 

She hid her face in his shoulder, though she was probably too old already to get carried around like that. "But I did know who was outside," she argued quietly. 

Jordan let her down again and looked at Stiles apologetically. "I'm sorry. She's the daughter of a family friend so I get to babysit her sometimes. I take it that Kira already introduced herself to you?" 

Stiles' mouth had fallen open slightly while Jordan had scolded Kira. Of course, the man had to be good with children too, additional to his already overly friendly and likable character! What was he, a saint?! 

"Uh, yeah, she did. She was very polite," Stiles replied after remembering that you were supposed to answer when someone asked you a question. 

"I see you've already come to terms with the cane. Has someone told you already that you look really classy with it?" Jordan joked, a handsome smile on his face. 

Ugh, why do some people have to be so charming? 

Stiles self-consciously looked at the cane, too, and stomped it on his foot by accident. He grimaced and looked away. 

After that awkward moment had finally passed, Stiles accepted Jordan's invitation for tea and so they both ended up sitting in the kitchen. Not really what Stiles had expected from his first physical therapy session but he now knew that it had never supposed to be a regular therapy in the first place. 

"So, are you even a physical therapist?" Stiles asked conversationally. 

Jordan smirked as he was about to take a sip from his own mug. "Not officially. But I'd say that I'm medically educated enough." 

"I'm your only patient, then?" 

"Consider yourself special." 

It probably wasn't wise to share a companionable conversation by a mug of tea with a fraud but Stiles honestly couldn't bring himself to leave. He wanted some answers first. 

"Why me?" he asked because it was the most important question. 

"I knew what to look for," Jordan answered cryptically. When he noticed that Stiles' lips had become a thin line, displaying his frustration, he smiled. "I know what you are because I've spent my whole life looking for you. Not you, specifically. Not that I was aware of, anyway. It's weird how fate works sometimes. But now I've found you and I can finally fulfill my purpose." 

Alarm bells were going off in Stiles' head by then. 

"Wait," Jordan said, putting down the mug. "I'm not some stalker. And I'm not a collector or whatever you're assuming right now. Please let me explain." Frustrated, Jordan ran a hand through his short hair. "I didn't mean to come across as creepy. I'm sorry. It's hard for me to keep my excitement in, is all." 

Stiles' expression became even more bewildered. He looked like he was seconds away from fleeing the house while screaming loudly for help. 

Jordan sighed. "Hell, I'm not making it better, am I? How about I tell you about me first? About what I am. I'm sure I should've lead with that. Yeah, I definitely should have. Uh, how about I answer your question about the ointment first? I'm sure that's why you're even here." 

"What are you and what do you want?" Stiles asked warily. He knew better than to trust a supernatural creature he didn't know. Under the table, he was holding his phone in a firm grip, already typing the first few lines for a 'rescue me'- message. 

"Essentially, I'm human. There's just one thing that makes me... well, a little different from the rest," Jordan shrugged his shoulders with a slight grimace. "You probably won't believe me but anyway. I'm what most call a _"phoenix"_. Which just means that I can die, but I will be reborn again and look exactly the same, with my memories completely intact as if I was never gone at all." 

Not the craziest thing Stiles had ever heard but he still had trouble believing him. What would Jordan gain by lying to him? On the other hand, why would he even tell him the truth? 

Stiles hadn't figured the man out, yet. He needed to collect more data. 

"Okay," Stiles drawled, trying to take what Jordan had told him at face value. "Do you spontaneously burst into flames? Can you turn into a bird?" 

Jordan laughed, his sagging shoulders indicating that he was relieved that Stiles hadn't run away yet. "No. It's not like that. You probably picture me like Fawkes right now. But I'm not literally a phoenix. As you see, I appear to be human. And that's because I am, basically. I just have one feature that makes me different and earned me the name. It's the same with you, isn't it?" At Stiles' confused look, Jordan elaborated. "You're not literally a spark either but you carry them, you create them. And that's why you're called a spark, right? I don't know why no one ever thought of a new name for the likes of us. That would certainly clear all misconceptions." 

All his instincts were screaming at Stiles to run now. That man knew who he was and that had never ended well for him or for his mother. 

Hastily, Stiles jumped to his feet and took a few steps away from Jordan. 

"Wait!" Jordan stood up as well, holding up his hands like he was dealing with a frightened animal. "Please hear me out. I mean no harm. I swear. I don't even have a weapon in reach." 

Stiles directed the end of his cane towards Jordan, acting like he had a sword in his hand instead of something made out of wood. Jordan got the hint and stayed where he was. 

"How did you know about me?" Stiles' eyes had narrowed in suspicion. Behind his back, he was still holding on to his phone, seconds away from sending the message. 

"The scars on your palms - it's the mark of Perun. I would've recognized it anywhere," Jordan explained calmly. "It's called _Gromoviti znaci _\- thunder marks. They are the symbol of Perun. I told you, once you know what to look for, it's obvious."__

__Stiles gulped. He had come across that name - Perun - before in his research. He also knew about the thunder marks. But he had never found the connection. What did all of it _mean_? _ _

__"So every spark has those marks?" he asked, still not giving up his defensive stance._ _

__"Not usually on their hands. And I've never seen it split, like yours. But yes, they mark you as a son of Perun," Jordan answered evenly._ _

__He definitely had to do more research about this. Later, though, when he wasn't in immediate danger anymore._ _

__"And what has that got to do with you?"_ _

__"Have you ever heard the myth about Perun? It says that the world is represented by a sacred tree, with its branches and trunk symbolizing the living world and the roots the underworld or the realm of the dead. Perun - the god of thunder and lightning - was the ruler of the living world and Veles - his enemy - the god of the underworld. But even though Perun had managed to win the war against Veles, they unknowingly shared the same lover - the sun. Because each night the sun was thought to be diving behind the horizon and into the underworld where Veles ruled. There are many versions of this myth, of course. But the one version that I believe in states that the children born from the coupling of Perun and the sun were sent to live in the human world to punish his lover's adultery and were called sparks or Son of Perun. But they were in danger because of their value and worth, so Perun - who himself had a Phoenix for a companion - because he couldn't deny that he still loved his children, gave a few chosen mortals the ability to die and live again and again. They should serve as the ideal protectors for his children because they have more than one life to train for the task."_ _

__"That's just a silly story," Stiles hissed. "Don't tell me you think you have to act as my bodyguard now just because of this? Do you even realize how crazy that sounds?"_ _

__"I know, I know," Jordan acknowledged. "I sound like a lunatic, don't I? But, Stiles, I was born for the first time in 1969 and died in 1986. But then I was born again and at the age of four the memories of my former life came back to me. I could write, do maths. I knew how to swear. I could tell so many dirty jokes. My parents thought I was a witch or the spawn of satan. And now, I'm in my third life and someone finally explained to me why I am the way I am."_ _

__"They could've lied to you," Stiles challenged._ _

__"That's true," Jordan admitted. "I was as skeptic as you when I first heard about it. I thought, 'what the hell, that can't be true!'. But they showed me records of other people like me and other people like you. There are not many examples, but those that exist appeared to be genuinely authentic. But what really made me give this whole thing a shot was the realization that it had perfectly worked for all of them. They had seemed genuinely happy. They were good for each other. I thought I'd give it a try because, hey, sparks are rare and who knew if I'd ever meet one. I wasn't even convinced that they still exist at all."_ _

__Unbeknownst to Stiles, his own hand had started to sink, his rigid posture gradually loosening up._ _

__"And now you are?" He still sounded incredulous, though._ _

__Jordan's hands had gone down as well. He shrugged. "I'm willing to take a leap of faith."_ _

__Stiles wasn't sure what to make of all this. On the one hand, he found it hard to believe Jordan, let alone go along with this whole idea. On the other hand, he saw no reason why the man would go through all this trouble just to tell him a lie._ _

__"The ointment - where did you get it from? It had unicorn saliva in it which I've heard is extremely rare. But even so, you gave it to me," the teenager said, not without suspicion._ _

__There had to be a reason why Jordan had handed something of that value over to him. Maybe he was expected to pay for it in other ways than with money._ _

__"Its effect is astounding, isn't it? I only wish you could've had the chance to apply it sooner. If you had had access to it right after your injury, you wouldn't be able to tell now that you've ever been injured at all," Jordan shook his head in displeasure, "What's done is done, though."_ _

__"So you're saying you gave it to me, just because it would help me?" Stiles summarized, still not convinced of Jordan's credibility._ _

__The phoenix nodded, "I know you don't trust me yet. You'd be crazy if you did." Then he cocked his head slightly to the side. "You should go now. Your dad is already outside, waiting for you."_ _

__Right after he had said that, Stiles felt his phone vibrate in his hand and a notification popped up on his screen, telling him that he had got a message from his dad._ _

__"How- how did you know? I thought you were human?!" Stiles gripped the cane a little tighter again._ _

__Jordan's lips twisted into a small smile. "I'm not a noob, Stiles. I've spent years preparing. This is my legacy."_ _

__Preparing. Since he believed himself to be destined to act as Stiles protector, it wasn't hard to guess how he had prepared himself for the task._ _

__And his training seemed to have been successful, seeing as he had been aware of the exact moment the Sheriff had pulled into the driveway of his little bungalow._ _

__Without saying goodbye, Stiles left the house._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply apologize if I got something wrong about the history part of this chapter. I didn't really know so much about Polish history but I researched a little and built the Sheriff's background up on what I found out through wikipedia and online forums. I also have no idea if the US army ever stationed soldiers in Poland, especially at that time. I just thought it could be possible. 
> 
> Jordan's recount of the myth of Perun is loosely based on slavic mythology. But I also added a lot of stuff or tried to make sense of it and interpret it in a way that would fit into the story. I'm sorry if I offended anyone. If there's something I got completely wrong, you're free to tell me but I hope you'll understand that I can't correct any mistakes, seeing as it would throw over my complete outline for the story. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hey guys, 
> 
> Nice to be back. I'm sorry that it took me so long to update. I've had a shitty week - well, weeks, really. Not only did I not pass my entrance exam, my room was also infested with wasps and I lost one of my best friends (she's still alive, don't worry.). Consequently,since we're part of the same group of friends and they are all on her side, I've lost the rest of my friends too, in a way. I felt really alone and like a loser for some time. But things are looking up, I guess. 
> 
> Going through all of this (and really, there's more but this note is long enough already), I was really at my lowest. But, hey, I'm still here, right? And I realized that since I've made it through all of this without breaking, that has to be worth something. Maybe I'm stronger than I've thought. 
> 
> So, to anyone having a bad week: Stay strong! 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! See you next chapter! (Which probably will take as long as this one. Sorry.)


	7. Royal Blues

Sometimes, things could be getting better while simultaneously getting worse. 

Stiles' life was the perfect example and also the proof that oxymorons like a miserably good life did exist. 

His situation at school, for example, was getting worse but not like a cold was getting worse or the finances of a man who had no idea how to handle his income correctly were getting worse. His social degradation was like a drunk man making his way home from a bar: slightly disoriented, more stumbling than walking while singing god-awful renditions of songs about emancipation and the freedom of not needing anybody with the complete conviction that one was acting like a real man even though the song was originally sung by a woman. 

Meaning that it was an embarrassing thing to witness and the chance of someone puking was getting higher per minute. 

Not that he had expected anything different. After the corpse had made its reappearance, he'd been the hot topic in the whole school. Because of course they immediately connected his suddenly falling ill with that. Because that was all the information you needed to convict someone of an illegal action; them not being there to defend themselves. 

"Bambi, nice to have you here in my office again!" The door to the office got closed with a powerful "bump!", causing Stiles to be forcefully withdrawn from his thoughts. 

"Did I say nice? I meant annoying as hell," said Miss Barks as she let herself fall back onto her office chair. Her eyebrows were so firmly set on her forehead that Stiles knew she meant business. 

From the desk came a warning growl. Miss Barks shook her head at it. 

"I've seen a lot of pranks, Bambi, but this one really takes the cake. How the hell did you get that animal to cooperate?" 

She held out her hand as if she wanted to touch the metal cage placed on her desk but the warning growl seemed to stop her. 

Stiles grimaced, trying to establish eye-contact with Burly in order to tell him to be quiet. He was in deep enough shit as it was already. 

"He's harmless," Stiles said with a shrug. 

"He attacked one of our students." 

"Yeah, well. It was out of self-defense!" 

Miss Barks gave him that look that clearly said "I don't give a flying horse-shit what his motive was. This is not the court." 

"This is a wild animal. Wild meaning that it has no business being in our school," Miss Barks looked at the fox with slight fascination. "Maybe I should call you Dr. Dolittle from now on. How the hell did you manage to tame that thing?" 

Before he was even able to respond, the door to the office opened again with vigor and two more people stormed in. 

"It's not his fault, Miss Barks! We're all innocent, I swear!" 

"We should be in here with him! After all, we planned the whole thing." 

Cora and Lindsay looked at each other, Lindsay looking contrite while Cora was glaring at her friend for playing innocent. 

Miss Barks took one quick glance at the two girls, then her attention was back on the fox. She put her head in her hands and massaged her temples. 

"Please take a seat, Miss Hale, Miss Simmons." 

They did as told. 

Miss Barks leaned back in her chair, assessing the three teenagers in front of her with narrowed eyes. But Stiles thought he saw something else glimmer in her eyes besides fury. He wasn't able to identify the emotion, though. 

"It's always you three," she mused. "This marks the third time you've been to my office. I must say that I'm most surprised by you, Miss Simmons. You've never been known to disturb the peace." 

Lindsay lowered her head in shame while Cora next to her sat up a little straighter. 

"Three is not that bad a count, actually," stated the young Hale proudly.

"Three times in this week. And it's only Tuesday." Miss Barks eyed her critically. 

Cora grinned. "Still not a bad count." 

Stiles felt like banging his head against the table. 

"Miss Hale, it seems that you don't understand the severity of your actions and it appears that you don't even have an ounce of shame in you for the problems you've caused." Miss Barks pursed her lips as she thought about something. 

Cora narrowed her eyes and leaned a little further over the desk, getting right into Miss Barks' face. "I'm aware that some rich, arrogant boys got sprinkled by a little water and that they've got scared by a small animal but I didn't think that would constitute as a problem since nobody got hurt. They had it coming, to be honest. And I won't apologize for giving back as good as I've got." 

Lindsay's eyes widened in shock and her face turned slightly green. She looked like she was seconds away from puking. 

"What do you take all this for, Miss Hale?" 

"War," replied Cora immediately. "This is war, Miss Barks and I'm not willing to raise the white flag. Not ever." 

Miss Barks looked like she was contemplating Cora's words, her head nodding along to some agreement she had probably come to in her head. 

"Well, you're glad that I've been having problems with my hearing lately. For a moment I thought you had said 'war' which would have meant that I would have been forced to act. But I must have misheard. You were clearly talking about the _chore_ you will be happy to undertake to make up for all the troubles you've caused. Did I make myself clear, Miss Hale?" 

Cora nodded, trying hard to suppress a grin of victory. 

Miss Barks then handed them a sheet with the details about their new duty. After that, they were allowed to go but only under the condition that Stiles would never again bring his pet with him to school. 

"That went... unexpectedly well," Lindsay stated, sounding surprised. 

"Miss Barks has always held the opinion that kids these days need to solve their problems among themselves. She doesn't think very highly of all these new theories about education. In her book, very bad students should be punished and those who get bullied have to stand up for themselves. She doesn't care how we behave outside her lessons, which is good for us," Cora told them. 

Stiles looked doubtingly down at Burly, fingers carding through his beard. 

Lindsay watched him with a slight look of disdain. 

"And now we have to get rid of this ugly rug," She pointed at the white beard someone had thought would look perfect if it was glued to Stiles' face. "Little piece of advice, Stilinski: Don't fall asleep in class. It makes you an easy target for pranks like this one." 

To be fair, falling asleep during class hadn't been Stiles' intention. But ever since that night his scars had turned black, a peaceful night had become a rarity. 

His dreams were strange. 

But he didn't allow himself to think about them right now. 

"Why? Don't you think that I'd look amazing like this on a Christmas card?" Stiles asked playfully, all the while stroking his fake beard. Truthfully, he just feared the process of getting this thing off of his face. 

Cora's expression hardened. "No." 

"But I look so mature with it!" 

"You look homeless with it, you mean," Lindsay corrected helpfully. 

Without his consent, they dragged him into the ladies' restroom and worked for over half an hour on him to get the fake beard off of his face. All his attempts to flee were unsuccessful. 

And his fear had been confirmed. The separation from the beard was indeed painful. 

But that wasn't even the worst part of his day. 

"This is no normal punishment. This," he waved around the sheet Miss Barks had given him, "counts as an actual violation of my human rights!" 

Cora rolled her eyes at him. "Stop being dramatic. You got the best punishment out of all of us! You only have to stay a little while longer after class to accompany the ballet class on the piano. Big deal! I actually have to tutor those dumbasses from our golf team!"

Lindsay didn't even dare to talk about the chore given to her. She just let her head hang down and contemplated her whole life. 

_Poor girl_ , Stiles thought empathetically, _Being forced to help out the cheerleaders when all of them hate you with a passion is just evil._

"But, at least, we got to enjoy the sight of Vincent drenched to the bone, running away with an unmanly screech from a tiny fox. That almost makes it worth it." 

Stiles raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic optimism Cora was displaying. 

"He also got bit in the ankle. He could sue the school," Lindsay added sourly. 

"But he won't," Cora assured her confidently. 

"How'd you know?" 

"Because tomorrow the school board will get a notice of him storing alcohol in his locker. He can't afford to sue them now if he wants to stay here." 

Stiles looked slightly taken aback. "How did you even...? You know what, you're evil. I'm glad I have you on my side." 

"It was not easy to find out his locker combination, but the effort definitely paid off," she said, smiling. 

Neither Stiles nor Lindsay had ever seen her smile so much. It was starting to freak them out. 

The rest of the school day passed by in a rather normal fashion. Lindsay and Cora kept a close look on Stiles to avoid anything like the beard incident from happening again. The other students were doing their best at avoiding them, some downright glared at them. No one wanted to talk to them anymore, be it from fear of repercussions from the popular kids or because they hated them. It was the three of them against the whole school. 

But Stiles didn't mind that so much. Cora was fierce and full of vengeance, so she was hardly ever targeted. No one really dared that. And no one who wasn't really involved in the "war" dared to attack Lindsay or Stiles either. Besides, Lindsay's old friends did seem to have really liked her because they just looked the other way but never engaged in any malicious behavior towards them. 

So even if the whole school appeared to either have turned their back or their hatred on them, it didn't matter because they still had each other. 

All in all, life was good as long as he had Lindsay and Cora by his side but it was also a little bit miserable. 

***

The smell of coffee was wafting through the air and almost managed to cover up the smell of dust, old books, and slightly burned pages. 

On a table lay a map, spread out and spiked with pins. 

It was a map of the preserve. 

Jackson was studying it meticulously but his eyes were beginning to hurt and his head felt a little woozy. 

Derek was walking around with his hand on his back, always going around in the same circle so that Jackson was wondering when the floor would show furrows. 

"You're sure they're no clues in the memoirs?" Jackson asked, even though he didn't expect a different answer than the other fifteen times he had asked that question. 

Derek stopped pacing for a second and just looked at Jackson, who ducked his head in shame after a while. 

"Talia didn't know where the nemeton was located," Peter said. "No Hale ever did find out about its whereabouts, though many have reportedly tried. It's not meant to be found, I think." 

"That can't be true because the Order was looking for it and they somehow knew that it was dying," Laura interjected. 

"The nemeton is a source of power. It is supposed to keep the land alive and preposterous. It's not a coincidence that we were one of the most powerful werewolf families once. The nemeton on our territory was extraordinary and gave us power that some families could only dream of." 

"But what is it?" Laura asked Peter, who seemed to know so much more than everyone else. 

The older werewolf just shrugged. "I have no idea." 

Jackson growled in frustration. Without the nemeton, they didn't have any leverage over the order. Without it, they couldn't bargain if worst came to worst. 

They had no secret weapon against the Order. Their only option now was to await what the Order wanted and then react. 

It was a situation that everyone had been trying to avoid. Fruitlessly. 

And the meeting with them was already tomorrow. 

***

The blue envelope on his desk was very apparent even though the mess of papers and pencils should have distracted a little from it. His name - Stiles, not his real name - was written in an elegantly swung handwriting. 

Stiles briefly wondered what his father thought about him getting Mail that had no sender on it considering his paranoia nowadays.

As he picked it up, he could have sworn that the envelope smelled faintly of lavender. 

Without further ado, he opened it and pulled an equally blue letter out. He was beginning to like the color. It had to be royal blue or something. 

As he read the letter, he sat down at his desk, leaning casually back against his chair. The cane was leaning against the wall in his reach. Always in his reach now. 

His hand was slightly shaking. 

_Dear Mr. Stilinski,_

_It has come to our attention that you have found yourself in a predicament that is altogether quite threatening and unpleasant._

_In times like these, it is hard to know who to trust. We assure you, therefore, that our main interest is finding the one responsible for your predicament as he has already caused damage to our own as well._

_This letter, therefore, should serve as your invitation to a meeting between ourselves and the Hale pack, during which further actions will be discussed._

_We are hoping that we can expect your appearance as well since we can offer you options regarding a solution to your problem._

_Kind regards,_

_The Order_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that it took me a long time to update. And that probably won't change in the future seeing as my life is very hectic and messy and overfilled with stuff to do. 
> 
> I'm sorry but I'm also not sorry. I'm doing what I can. So please prepare yourselves for very slow updates. 
> 
> I also feel like I kind of lost my mojo right now. It's like everything I ever wanted to write got sucked out of me and I'm left with nothing. 
> 
> But I won't abandon this story. It took me so long to plan everything, I can't just let it go now.


	8. What Is Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia is contemplating what relationships she should leave behind, Stiles is trying to do his own thing for once, and the leader of The Order finally introduces herself à la Superman saving Lois Lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there some scary content in this chapter? Well, not really, I'd say. But for those who are scared easily, you should be careful with the warehouse scene.  
> If someone really wishes, I could add notes where the possibly scary scene begins and where it ends like I did in one of the previous chapters. Just let me know.

His eyes were steel blue and clear and she loved them. She loved their coldness, she loved how they changed in the light, she loved when they suddenly and uncharacteristically softened. They were a stormy sky on a too warm summer day. They were the darkening sky before the first fall of snow. 

She loved them but she did her best not to. 

Because if eyes were the window to the soul, then she'd rather not get lost in them for she was sure that the soul awaiting was twisted, chaotic and ambivalent in nature. After everything she had done and had been through she needed steadiness, not a whirling sea of conflicting emotion drowning her. 

Besides, they had hurt her too, those eyes. 

So many times, over and over. When she wasn't able to make them look warm and they instead turned their hardened and detached gaze towards her. 

But old habits die hard, unfortunately. 

"What are you trying to say?" 

Her arms were folded in front of her chest as she asked. 

Jackson clenched his teeth and looked away for a moment to regain his composure. 

"I was asking for your help," he gritted out. "And I know you understood me just fine the first time I said that. And the second time as well." 

"I hear the words but they just lose their meaning when they're coming out of your mouth." 

Was it possible wanting to strangle someone with the same ferocity as wanting to kiss them senseless? 

Their relationship had been many things, but never emotionless. In fact, the emotions were always boiling. The heat of their romance, the red anger between them forcing them apart every time. If their relationship was a color it would be red. Red for heat. Red for fire. Red for burns. Red for love. Red for passion. Red for anger. 

"I won't beg," he said finally. 

Lydia knew he'd be too proud for that. Pride was everything to him. He held his head high and walked on, crushing those in his way as if they were mere ants. 

But she had her own pride. Pride that demanded that she make him suffer. Pride that would rather see him gone and her in agony because of it than admitting that she needed him. 

"And I wouldn't agree if you did," she said. 

She held herself as if there was a fragile crown on her head that was about to slip. Cautious but still majestic, untouchable, and noble. 

Jackson chose to take a step towards her then. 

"But you see, the thing is that this is not about us. It's- what shall we call it? - a business transaction, so to speak." 

She smiled in a cold and calculated manner as she leaned even closer so that their faces were only inches apart. 

"But what would you have to offer me in return?" she whispered as she gazed up at him through her eyelashes. "I could find that nemeton of yours if I wanted to. You just have to give me enough initiative. I'd find it but why would I share my knowledge with you? It's not you who needs to know about it, it's Derek, the pack. What makes you think I'd make you my partner in crime?" 

Her lips were so close.... And they were painted red. Which was enough of a warning sign for Jackson. 

The color red was their downfall. 

It was already burning him alive once again. 

He turned his head so that their lips were no longer aligned for a kiss, pressed his cheek to hers, gripped her waist with one hand and replied in a husky voice, "Who said anything about being partners? I'd be your assistant if you prefer an unequal status between us. As I said, this is not about us. It's about getting the job done. And you and I together may be a toxic as hell combination but we're also a force to be reckoned with." 

He felt her breath stocking and heard her heartbeat stutter for just a second, so he stepped away from her. 

Her eyes were green, swirling with golden streaks. They were the most exquisite gem and that made them unattainable. 

"We're poison together," she agreed quietly. 

Jackson nodded slowly. "But a potent one." 

"Then why did you think of me? Why ask me?" 

Her posture was stiff but she kept herself from trembling. There was strength in the way she expressed her feelings only through her eyes. Her body was steady but her eyes were a whirlwind of emotion. 

Jackson was already at the door of the room they had once shared. Now the bed was made and the closet was empty. There were no more pictures on the walls. No fashion magazines stacked on the bedside table. 

He turned around to regard her. 

"Because there is no person other than you who I'd trust to make the right choices. Myself included." 

With that, he walked away after closing the door behind himself. She was left in the empty room that was once the place where they had shared everything. 

***

When he was playing, the world around him ceased to exist. There was no chaos, no question marks. Instead, there was freedom, brightness, beauty, and completion. 

Music created a world of its own and everything was possible in it. 

She was just coming down the stairs but she stopped once she was aware of the gentle piano music drifting through the air. 

The melody was fast-paced and heartachingly sweet. 

Waltz no. 2 in A flat major from Schubert. 

In German it was called "Sehnsuchtswalzer", which translated to "Waltz of Yearning". 

Lydia minded her steps as she walked into the living room; she didn't want to disturb the player. 

Her effort was for naught, though, because the piece - while it possessed a quality of making you feel like you've heard it a thousand times in your heart already - was brief, and already over as soon as she had reached the living room. 

Though over, the piece seemed to echo through her core. Maybe yearning could be expressed through music and, therefore, you feel like you know the melody by heart. 

One spark was steadily floating over Stiles' fingers as if it was the one guiding them. 

"I liked it," she spoke then. "Do you mind if I listen?" 

Stiles winced at her voice, not having expected anyone interrupting him. It wouldn't have happened if he had gone to the cellar and practiced on Bethany but then he remembered that the room was basically to one quarter a wall of mirrors and he rather preferred this scenario. 

"I just want to relax a little," Lydia added, probably having sensed his discomfort through his lack of immediate response. "I usually listen to music when I need time to think about something." 

He couldn't believe that the almost sheepish sounding girl in front of him was Lydia Martin, the girl from his dreams who was out of reach. She didn't seem so perfect right now. 

"Sure," he replied and rubbed his neck. "I just can't guarantee that I won't slip up or something. I'm just practicing." 

"I don't mind." 

She sat down on the couch as another piece filled the room. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched him play. She had always known that Stiles was known for his relentless movement, his energy. In BHS, he had been the annoying clumsy kid who just couldn't sit still. He moved like ants were crawling up and down his body. 

But when he played, the music bundled his energy and his abrupt movements into a flow of notes, into grace. 

She had never found him more handsome than now. 

But as much as she tried, her heart didn't start racing. There was no tension in the air, no invisible string to pull her towards him. 

As much as she wanted, especially right now, she was not in love with Stiles. 

Being in love with Stiles would be easy, she thought. They would never argue because he was so completely smitten with her, he'd do anything for her. They also shared a lot of interests and something else she couldn't put a name on. He was just good for her. He made her laugh. He made her think and reflect on her actions and herself. 

Unlike Jackson, he had never treated her like a dumb girl. He had treated her as if he saw behind her facade and as if he still saw something beautiful and precious there. 

Yes, how easy life would be for her if she could just fall in love with Stiles. It would be a cute story. Him finally getting the girl he had unsuccessfully pined after for so long. And her? She would maybe be a better person. 

They would make a great couple, too. 

Lydia sighed. 

There, in the adjoined kitchen, she could spot Derek at the counter sipping a cup of coffee. It was only possible for her to see him because he clearly wanted a view into the living room. 

It was also clear what he was looking at. Or who he was looking at. 

Maybe she didn't need a boyfriend who'd make her a better person. Maybe she didn't need a boyfriend at all right now. 

The little spark which had been floating above Stiles' fingers since Lydia had found him playing had begun to move away from the piano. It was flying through the air in little circles, almost like it was dancing. The direction it was heading in was undoubtedly the kitchen. 

Stiles seemed to notice that too after he had stopped playing. 

"What are you doing, little guy? Come back here!" 

As he made the demand, Lydia decided that it was time for her to go. 

"I'll see you later, Stiles. Good luck catching the spark." 

She gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before she left the Hale House. She probably wanted to change her outfit and get ready for the meeting. 

Stiles only quickly followed her with his gaze, then he hastily grabbed the cane and took up pursuit of the spark. 

He found Derek leaning against the counter, which surprised him since he had no idea that the werewolf had been listening. 

The kitchen island was between them with its cooking area on the one side and its seating area on Stiles' side. Stiles had always loved the kitchen. 

He loved how spacious it was and that you couldn't throw the drawers or cupboards shut since they closed themselves. The dark wood of the counter was a nice contrast to the light blue tiles and the light wood of the cupboards and drawers. There were two windows which illuminated the whole kitchen and gave it a friendly look. 

Derek, for some reason, never sat down at one of the bar chairs at the kitchen island. He instead preferred to drink his coffee leaning against the counter, the sun warming his back. 

Stiles couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the werewolf's presence. The spot where he was standing was across from the thin sliding door, which was never closed anyway. It had been wide open, as far as Stiles could remember before he had barged into the kitchen. 

Only the spark had noticed. 

"Way to be a creep, Sourwolf," Stiles grumbled. 

Derek raised a brow. "What do you mean? Last I checked, this was my home." 

Stiles leaned the cane against the kitchen island. He didn't want to rely on it solely, especially when he wasn't even moving that much. 

"You still could've said something. Make your presence known. Say hi, like a normal person would." 

"I'm a werewolf." 

Stiles huffed out a laugh. "That doesn't mean that you don't need to have manners, young man." 

Derek repeated the last part incredulously under his breath. Young man? Look who's talking. 

But instead of continuing their bickering, Derek looked into his empty mug. 

"I didn't want to disturb you. Interrupt your concentration," he explained himself. 

"That's... considerate of you," Stiles had not been prepared for that. "But as you said, it's your home. Don't let my playing deter you from going into the living room. I could've gone downstairs anyway if I wanted to practice in peace." 

But downstairs, he would've been forced to be in a room with a giant mirror. That didn't sound very appealing to him, as stupid as he felt for the notion. 

"You're not bothering anyone," Derek said. 

"Okay." 

Since this conversation has come to an abrupt and painfully awkward end, Derek decided to pour himself another cup of coffee. He asked if Stiles wanted one too and after he got a positive answer, he grabbed the yellow mug with the Batman logo on it, poured the coffee and handed it to Stiles. 

Coffee always calmed the teenager down. A positive side effect of the Adderall. 

"So, I got an invitation yesterday," Stiles suddenly opened a new conversation. He had walked over to Derek and was now leaning against the counter as well, their shoulders almost touching. 

Derek made a humming noise to signal that he should continue.

"From someone called _The Order_. Does that name ring a bell?" 

As soon as the name fell, Derek almost choked on his coffee. 

It was clear from the expression of shock on his face that that was the last name Derek had expected to fall from Stiles' lips.

"So you're surprised about that. So was I, for a matter of fact. Especially since you failed to mention that you've got an appointment with them." 

The accusation was not lost on the alpha so he immediately straightened himself and took on a defensive pose. 

"I explained everything I knew about them at the last pack meeting. Which you didn't attend," he deadpanned. 

Stiles let out a noise of frustration and put the mug away. 

"We've been through this. I'm not part of the pack," Stiles stated, his eyebrows drawn together. "And that's why I intend to accept the invitation. I'm turning up as my own person and not as part of your pack." 

"They can be dangerous, Stiles. We don't even know what they want yet." 

"So I've heard," Stiles said, silently thanking Cora for sharing information with him. 

"You're friends with Cora, Scott, Isaac, and Malia - partly even with Peter. But you won't accept your part in the pack." 

There was a question hidden in Derek's statements. Not even a very well hidden one. 

Stiles acted like he was offended and put a hand over his heart. "You don't count me to your friends, Sourwolf? I'm hurt!" 

Derek just shot him a look that told him to quit joking.

"There's no place for me in your pack, Derek! Don't you see? I have to be on my own for once and figure everything out. I need - I need space. I need to be free from the commitment and duties of a pack. I _need_ to be my own person for once." 

He had told him this so many times. It was their favorite argument that went nowhere, no matter how often they talked about it. 

Derek's mouth became a thin line and it looked like he was just about to argue but then he seemed to think better of it. He just shook his head in resignation. 

"What does _the Order_ want from you?" he asked instead. 

Stiles shrugged his shoulders. "Apparently," he said, unsure, "they want to help me. And it also seems like they're the only ones who can." 

"How can you be sure?" 

"Because I did my research. They are known for training sparks. They've been doing that for centuries, apparently. This might be my only chance to learn more about what being a spark truly means. I might even meet some of my kind too," Stiles explained, trying his hardest to make Derek understand why he was willing to take the risk. 

The alpha didn't look convinced. 

"Besides, I have to act fast because whatever this is", he looked at the black scars, "it's nothing good." 

Derek closed his eyes for a moment. He already knew he had lost this argument. 

"You better be careful," he grumbled. 

He didn't say what he was really thinking. Right now, nothing would've changed the teenager's mind. Stiles was too stubborn to understand. 

***

The sun was setting and a cold wind was beginning to sweep mercilessly through the streets, taking trash with it and bending the trees. 

Dark clouds have settled over the town and darkened the ending of an otherwise sunny day. 

The warehouse district was quiet, except for the rustling of fallen leaves and the soft howling of the wind. 

Most of the warehouses were still in use. Beacon Hills had one big metal manufactory and even though it had lost importance for the market and employees, it was still one of Beacon Hills' most profitable economic sources. Most of the people in town made their living there. Everyone feared the day the manufactory would close because it would mean the end of Beacon Hills as they knew it. Without it, their number of inhabitants would be reduced to its third. 

Some pessimists already saw Beacon Hills turning into a ghost town in less than twenty years. 

Seeing the crane, the trucks and the steamrollers sloppily parked and as dirty as if they hadn't been washed in years, Stiles wasn't worried. 

This town would never bloom again like it had in the fifties but it most likely would never wilt as well. 

The warehouse district consisted of three warehouses still in use and one far in the back which hadn't been in use for over twenty years. 

Too many deaths had happened there. It had been the first one to be built. Safety was not the top priority while it had been built and so many people had already died during the construction. The first few years of its usage weren't free of accidents either. 

But the final nail in the coffin had been the suicides in the 1980s. Four people had committed suicide in there and so the town council had decided on closing it. It had been abandoned ever since. 

People believed that it was cursed, haunted. 

Too many deaths must mean that there was something wrong with it. It had been deemed unholy ground. 

And of course, people fiercely believed in it. 

But every town was haunted in its own way. 

The fox sniffed the bristle air as they made its way to the abandoned warehouse. Winter was approaching fast this year. The temperature was lower this time of the year than it had ever been over the last decade. 

"It's such a cliche, meeting in an abandoned warehouse," Stiles huffed. His breath built a cloud of smoke right in front of his face. 

Burly made a noise that was comically close to a sneeze. He was cold too. Spending the nights in warm houses cuddled into blankets had obviously spoiled him. 

It wasn't only the cliché meeting point that was annoying Stiles. It was the time and the whole atmosphere. It was 5 o'clock in the afternoon and it looked like a storm was brewing up. 

It really shouldn't be this cold either. 

His fingers were starting to freeze so he dug his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. 

He regretted not wearing a warmer jacket. 

His hair was now long enough to cover his ears which he was very grateful for. The cold wind on his face felt like it was cutting into his skin. The cold crept inside his clothes so that he wished there was not an inch of skin uncovered. 

A cracking noise - not even that loud - broke the silence, it felt like a shot fired from a gun. 

Burly flinched. 

Then something unexpected happened. 

Suddenly, there was music. Only a whisper at first. 

It was accompanied by another cracking noise as if the radio signal was bad. 

Somewhat trying to assure himself that it was nothing, Stiles began to look for the source. 

Was someone else here? Was this a really static sounding ringtone? 

It was an old song. It was one of those songs that had already achieved a cult status and everybody knew it but nobody could recall its name, much less the artist. 

The words were so warped they were barely recognizable. 

As Stiles wandered carefully through the warehouse, the music became louder. 

The teenager felt thrown back into the days when the warehouse was still used. He could almost see the busy life in here. People stowing the new shipment of metal away. 

A radio would be playing so that the workers weren't completely solitary in their duties. 

A song, popular at the time, would echo through the hall, accompanied by some whistles. 

Back then, when this was still a lively place. 

As Stiles' investigation showed, the music was indeed coming from a radio. 

It was the oldest model he had ever seen. Dust was like a second layer to it, dimming the red color it originally possessed. 

The loudspeakers were dirty and dented, its antenna was bent. 

By any means, this radio was too old and battered to even still be working. 

Stiles grasped the cable and pulled the plug. There was no resistance. 

The plug had just been uselessly lying on the ground. 

There was no power outlet. 

"What the hell," Stiles muttered, irritated. 

He pressed the off button but nothing happened. 

He tried to turn the volume down but the device would not react to his demands. 

Burly began to growl and bark so Stiles started looking around for any other person. There had to be someone here if Burly reacted like that. 

Burly was looking frantically around, his back arched in defense. Not even he could make out to whom the presence he felt belonged. 

Stiles felt the fox press up against his leg. The little guy was spooked but he wasn't sure why. 

A creak could be heard. It sounded like it came from above their heads. 

Animal and teenage boy alike looked up at a wooden beam. It was old so creaks - especially in this wind - were normal, something to be expected. Old wood creaked. 

Stiles tried to slow his wildly beating heart down by being rational. 

Something didn't feel right. 

The radio kept on playing, working up to a crescendo. 

Out of instinct, Stiles and the fox slowly backed away from it. 

The radio cracked louder as if it actually pained it to play at such a high volume. It sounded like it would explode from the effort any second now. 

Then everything happened at once. 

The song reached its peak with a haunting high note, just as something fell from the roof. 

Stiles and Burly both threw themselves to the ground, shielding their heads. 

The falling object created a sharp whistle. A muffled scream was heard which transformed quickly into a gurgle. 

Without looking up, Stiles could feel the object swinging above their heads. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes which he had closed in self-preservation and turned his head. 

Burly was whining softly in his throat. He should've heeded the warning the animal was giving him but he was too curious. 

What he saw made him recoil immediately. He fell onto his bottom and robbed away from the sight. 

Feet, grey and already in the process of decaying, were dangling just two feet away from his face. 

As he was at a safe distance, he was able to take in the whole picture. 

The body of a woman in her early twenties was hanging from the wooden beam, a noose tied around her neck. Her eyes were bulging out of her face, her mouth drawn into an ugly grimace. 

Stiles thought she was dead but then her eyes rolled back into her skull. 

Her hands were frantically trying to restrict the pressure of the noose around her neck. 

Only then did the teenager realize that her neck had miraculously not broken and that she was slowly suffocating. 

That realization woke him up from his stupor. He immediately sprang into action. 

But how could he save her? She was too high up for him to reach her. 

Time was closing in on him like a room that was getting smaller and smaller. 

Frantically he looked around for something that he could use, something that would free her.

Suddenly her eyes fixated on him. The sclera was beginning to turn red, probably from bursting veins. Her mouth tried to form words but nothing escaped through the tight hold of the noose. 

Body vibrating in the need to do something, anything but stand there uselessly, Stiles ran his hand through his hair. 

He eyed the stack of boxes that was near where the dangling girl was. It might be stable enough to hold his weight, he thought. The boxes were made of wood so they would clearly not break. The only risk was in them toppling over. 

But he had to take that risk. 

As he climbed the stack, he felt them move slightly. The smaller boxes on the top were especially dangerous. He had to lean almost all of his upper body away from where he was standing too in order to reach her. 

He'd either succeed or he'd break his legs. Again. 

It wasn't easy to reach the top with his stiff leg and the restricted mobility it caused. 

His hands were shaking as he climbed the slightly wobbling stack. 

The few moments of almost falling had turned his stomach. 

He tried not to look down. 

All the while, an invisible clock kept ticking. 

_Faster, faster._

His breathing was rushed. 

When he had finally reached the top, there was no time to waste on taking a deep breath. 

He reached over without thinking. 

It felt like the ground was coming closer. He was almost flying. 

With a tight grip on his swiss army knife, he worked on cutting through the thick rope. His hand was sweaty and the knife almost fell out of his head. 

He had to use force to cut through it. Inch by inch, the rope began to fray. 

_Why isn't it ripping?! Why can't it just tear already?_

His teeth were clenched tightly and drops of sweat were beading on his forehead. 

His strength was leaving him. He probably couldn't hold himself any longer. 

Then all of a sudden he was thrown back by the force of the rope ripping. It was pure luck that the dangerously wobbling stack didn't collapse or that he didn't fall off. 

The knife - along with the girl - had fallen to the ground but he was still holding on to the edge of the boxes. 

He had made it. 

Sighing out a breath of relief, he began his descend towards safety. 

It took him longer now that he wasn't in such a rush anymore. 

He could see her moving. She was still alive. 

Thank god. 

"It's ok, it's ok," Stiles mumbled hurriedly as he approached the now desperately convulsing body. "I'm calling an ambulance. Everything will be fine..." 

It was only when he was close to her without the imminent danger of death surrounding her, that logic finally caught up with him. 

If she was alive, then why was her skin so grey, why did no clouds of breath appear when she breathed? Why didn't her chest heave, why were her clothes tattered? 

Because she hadn't been alive for a long time. 

Stiles violently recoiled from her while Burly was still growling. The animal didn't dare to come near her, though. 

With a wild and animal-like scream, the girl threw herself at the teenager, her cold hands closing around his throat. 

Her neck was red and bloody. 

A foul stench came out of her mouth as she continued to scream in his face. 

He tried to fight her off but she was stronger than him. She was inhumanly strong. 

Her crazy eyes full of rage spotted the knife that had fallen only a few inches away from them. As she reached for it, Stiles knew it was over. 

Her grip on his neck was cutting off his air supply and the coldness of her had made his body go numb. He was at her mercy. 

As he watched her stretch her arm for the knife, he knew that it was over. 

He should've known earlier. 

In his final moments, the world was dipped into a light so bright, it was blinding him. He closed his eyes and awaited the looming darkness. 

But it never came. 

The scream of the girl got an octave higher, then the pressure on his throat was suddenly gone. 

He coughed and rolled to the side, bile threatening to rise in his throat. 

Burly was whining again. 

Stiles soon found out that the animal had been a victim to the light too and was now momentarily blind. 

He reached for the scared fox and petted its head in comfort. 

Footsteps were coming closer. 

Stiles wished he could see more than shapes right now. 

"You were lucky. She almost got you," the newcomer announced in an elegant female voice. Her voice had a calmness to it that was inappropriate for the circumstances of their meeting. 

"Well, I got her first," Stiles replied in a husky voice and rubbed his slightly aching throat. 

"You're early. I didn't expect that," the woman said, sounding pensive. "I also didn't expect them to be so vicious. Or that strong. I have underestimated the situation, it seems." 

She was dressed in black and she wasn't very tall, that much he could make out through his still impaired sight. 

Her eyes were glowing unnaturally. 

Not that he had expected a human to save him. That would've been too normal for his life. 

Grabbing the fox and holding it tightly against his chest in order to shield it from harm, Stiles sat up and rubbed his eyes. 

He was starting to see her clearer. 

She was in her forties but her elegant face had no wrinkles or bore other marks of age. She looked haughty with the way she held her head. 

Even though she was a slight woman, she had an impeccable air of power surrounding her. 

Stiles knew whose acquaintance he was making. 

"I'd say you're simply too late." 

He stood up on slightly shaky legs and grabbed the cane he had let fall when the girl had first appeared. 

"Stiles Stilinski, it is an honor to meet you, though I wish the circumstances were different," she said. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows. "You mean you don't enjoy saving me from a ghost?" 

A familiar face came running towards them then. The man immediately turned to Stiles and gripped his shoulders, examining him.

"Stiles, thank god you're ok," Jordan breathed out in relief. "We got to you in time. I wasn't sure if the thunderbolt would do the trick." 

The word thunderbolt made Stiles' eyebrows go up in disbelief. 

The eyes of the woman turned a glowing orange. It was like a fire was burning within them. At the next blink, they were back to their dark brown color. 

"Why is she here? There hasn't been a ghost sighting in years," Stiles asked. 

He knew that the townspeople thought that the place was haunted but he also knew that it was just a rumor. The pack would've known otherwise. They had had meetings in this warehouse before, after all. 

"They are reliving their death because they've been awakened by powerful magic. It is no wonder that they are full of rage." 

"They? There are more of them?" Stiles almost couldn't believe it. The pack had faced many evil monsters over the past few years but never have they had to deal with ghosts. 

The woman's face was grave as she glanced at Stiles. 

"This is only the beginning if we can't stop him," she said ominously. "And that is precisely why we are here." 

She approached him with her hands crossed behind her back. Then her lips formed into a professional smile. 

"I'm Noshiko Yukimura, the head of _The Order_. You've already been introduced to Jordan, as far as I'm informed." 

Stiles didn't need to ask who she meant when she talked about stopping _him_. 

His face turned grim as he nodded. 

In answer to that, her face softened. She took his hand and turned it so that his palm was facing up. 

"There's imbalance now. The sparks he took from you have fed a dangerous source. Ghosts being awoken is only the beginning. If he wins, the world is thrown into chaos." 

"He knew my name," Stiles realized, feeling a black hole forming in his stomach. 

"Not enough of it, luckily," she agreed. 

"And that's why the scar has turned slightly black." 

"Yes," she said. "You felt drained, didn't you? You got sick, and you felt like the nightmare you awoke from never really ended." 

He flinched. How could she know? 

As if reading his thoughts, she smiled knowingly. "We've seen it happen before. Sparks like you are rare and without the proper training, they could be dangerous. We're here to interfere and to restore the balance your little meeting with him has destroyed. I apologize sincerely for not being here earlier but what is done is done." 

At that precise moment, the pack showed up. 

Derek was the first to set foot in the warehouse, obviously evaluating the risk for the rest of the pack. 

He was soon followed by the other members. What Stiles surprised, though, was that Lea was with them. He hadn't known that she would come and felt now slightly betrayed that no one had told him. It would've been nice to catch up before they had to face this clash of two opposing views. He hoped his expression conveyed how angry he was. 

Derek and Noshiko exchanged formalities as the other pack members stood defensively behind the alpha. Stiles noticed that other members of _The Order_ had started to walk into the warehouse as well. There was strength in numbers. 

"We are not here to disturb your pack," Noshiko reassured Derek. "The reason why we're here is to train the spark and hunt those who have almost succeeded in killing him." 

"He's part of my pack," Derek stated, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

"He came alone." 

Stiles almost wanted to groan in annoyance. Trying to free himself from the pack was almost like trying to get out of Scientology. They just wouldn't let you leave. 

As expected, Derek didn't accept his decision and started to get into an argument with the head of _The Order_. 

Stiles tuned them out because he wasn't interested in listening to them fighting a losing battle. He had already made his decision and no one could make him change his mind. 

Since he was not focused on arguing, he was the first to notice it. 

The coldness. 

The static coming from the radio. 

He tried to warn them but then the ghost had already appeared. 

It was a man this time. He was wearing an overall so it was safe to assume that he had been one of the workers who had died in this warehouse. 

A long sharp piece of metal had pierced through his chest and was still sticking out of it. 

Since he was prepared for the attack of a ghost now, he actually remembered that he had powers of his own that could be helpful. 

A spark formed in his hand. 

Just as he was about to throw the spark at the ghost, another one appeared. 

And then another one and another one. 

They continued to appear until he was surrounded. 

The ghosts didn't seem to care about the pack of wolves and other supernatural creatures being in their warehouse; their attention was solely on him. 

Cold, dead livid eyes were piercing him and he felt goosebumps break out on his skin. 

By this time, the pack and _The Order_ had become aware of his predicament and were trying to fight their way through to him. 

But their claws just went through them. 

The ghosts acted like the werewolves weren't even there. They continued to close in on him, their eyes murderous. 

The guy with the metal stuck in his chest pulled the piece out with an ugly squishing sound and pointed it towards Stiles' chest. His intention was clear. 

Before he could throw his spark at them and hope for the best, a soul-piercing, gut-wrenching scream echoed through the halls. 

There was only one person who could scream like that. 

The ghosts gripped their ears in pain and vanished. Stiles was safe for now. 

His ears were ringing but he was safe. 

"What were ghosts doing here? There haven't been ghosts in Beacon Hills for years," Derek demanded to know from Noshiko, probably suspecting foul play. 

"More importantly, why were they only set on killing Stiles?" Peter added, always having an eye for the most important part of the whole picture. 

Stiles sent a grateful look towards Lydia who was slightly out of breath. She nodded at him. 

Then he went over to where Derek was towering threateningly over Noshiko. 

"She doesn't have anything to do with it," he defended her, gripping Derek's shoulder to signal him to stop what he was doing. "If you want to blame someone, blame me. I'm the one who awakened them. Why else would they be so angry with me?" 

He was met with a lot of confused faces. 

"Explain," Derek demanded. 

Stiles took a deep breath to ready himself for repeating the revelation he had just been having himself a few minutes ago.


	9. A Shift in Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is made an offer that he can't refuse. The pack is not pleased about it.

A full carafe was in the middle of the table, but no one was allowed to pour themselves a glass of water. Not that anyone was particularly thirsty. However, being told not to touch something made that object despicably desirable. 

Considering that they were guests in the house Mrs Miller had once thought was inhabited by a girl possessed by the devil - the very girl who was right at this moment colouring in the kitchen with Malia - it was almost laughable how small it was. The whole pack, plus Lea, was gathering around a little round table, squeezing in as close as they could so they could keep the carafe in their field of vision like it was the most valuable object in their vicinity. 

"Imagine that carafe was a spring. Its water is endless but it is contained by a small vessel which doesn't have much capacity. I cannot fill it with more water than it can hold. But if I take water from it," Noshiko said and pulled the carafe over to her side of the table. She poured herself a glass of water. Then a man from behind her refilled the carafe so that it was now full again. ", it will refill. With time and effort, that is. If too much is taken, and there is not enough power to refill it, the spring will dry out and die."

Noshiko targeted Stiles with a look.

"That's how you can imagine what being a Spark means.  
The only spring not contained by a vessel is one of nature. Like the Nemeton. It is not bound to a body, a mind, so its power is limitless, but oftentimes it only uses it to keep the world in balance. Creatures gifted with a spark are hidden by it. Children of the moon residing in its area may be granted special powers," she let her gaze fall on Derek.  
"It is selfless, only uses the power that flows through it in the name of fate. That is how it is supposed to be," she continued. "It flows through us all, its power. A flourishing, nurturing force that baths us in warmth and gives us hope, strength, faith." 

"But any imbalance that can no longer be compensated destroys it. All its energy is wasted in a predetermined lost war." 

Noshiko lowered her head in sorrowful commemoration. Her mother had not been able to save the nemeton from its decline, and now the sorrow and guilt of this misfortune were resting on Noshiko's shoulders as if they were passed on hereditary. 

"Its flow stopped and ever since then the area the Nemeton has provided for has been cut off from its influence. Now, the forces - good and evil - are battling each other. People become more easily corrupt. The land is no longer protected. Ever since there has been an ongoing battle between good and evil, and the people are the ones to fight it." 

"So you're saying that there was no evil before the Nemeton was destroyed?" Lydia asked sounding sceptical. 

Noshiko shook her head. "There was evil. Where there is light, there is shadow. But good and evil were being kept in balance. For growth, there needs to be both sun and rain. This is what we believe in. The natural order. We are its enforcer." 

"I don't believe that people need a Nemeton to know what's right. There's always a choice," Jackson said. 

"There is," Noshiko agreed. "But it's not always black and white. There are many grey areas. Without balance, violence, darkness, and greed are easily fostered. Everything is twisted and sometimes the decisions based on good intentions turn out to be the cruellest and unforgiving ones." 

She levelled the group with a meaningful look so that nobody dared to disagree. They had all seen cruelty in some form or another. 

"Without a Nemeton, a surrogate must be found. In this case, the surrogate found his way here by himself." 

Stiles gulped. The significance of his role had never been clear to him, but now that he knew he suddenly felt too small to bear it. 

"And the effects of that decision have been immediate, haven't they? Even before your spark was awakened, the ground was coursing with energy again. A Banshee has turned up. A Beta has become an Alpha just in time to save his pack. Those are all signs that lead us here. And someone else as well." 

Noshiko then again lowered her head. "And he got to you sooner than we, for which I owe you all an apology. Untrained Sparks, especially right after the awakening of their powers, are trouble magnets. It can happen that, without even knowing, the Spark's power can be stolen. As is the case here." 

"Not completely stolen," Stiles corrected. 

"Otherwise you wouldn't even be here anymore," Noshiko's voice was cutting. "He has leached onto your spark already, and he will not rest until he has drained you entirely. Worse is that he is countless times stronger than you. He will use everything in his power to make you surrender. He even awakened the dead. And since the ghosts felt the same power coursing through you as the one that had awakened them, they think you're the one responsible." 

Which he partly was, Stiles thought. 

"Your carafe can never be full again unless we stop him, Stiles. And if he takes more, well," she took the carafe and smashed it against the table. As it broke into pieces, Stiles flinched. He looked at the shattered carafe and was immediately brought back to the graveyard, where he had almost died. He remembered the cold as it engulfed his body and his heart. At that time, he hadn't feared death because he had known it was the price he had to pay for his mistakes. As long as no one else had to suffer. He had played with power and he had lost. 

But he had survived.

Not because he had deserved it. Not because he had tried to outrun death.

It was because someone else had fought for him. Not just someone. Burly. His dad. The pack. Derek. They had all worked together to keep him alive. 

"You could've made your point without breaking a perfectly fine carafe," Jackson muttered, loosening the tension. "That's a little dramatic, don't you think, Mrs Yukimura?" 

Stiles looked at him in surprise. Being the jokester had always been his role in the pack, hasn't it? 

The Kitsune chose to ignore the werewolf's comment. 

"It's essential that you realise that we are your last help. We've trained Sparks before and we know what we are dealing with. No offence, Alpha Hale, but our organisation is better equipped at handling this delicate situation than your pack is and, therefore, I request, granted that the Spark agrees, that his training will be assigned to us from now on." 

"You want me to just hand him over to you?" Derek asked with furrowed brows. 

"Provided that he himself agrees, yes. He is allowed to make his own decisions, yes?" 

That was a deliberate blow and Derek knew it. How she knew that Stiles had distanced himself from the pack, he didn't understand. It was suspicious, so much was clear. 

"Why would _I_ ," Stiles stressed that word so to make the others aware that he was indeed present and that this decision was his alone to make, "want to partake in your training? I know nothing about you or your organisation of hippies." 

"The only way to get to know us is to be among us," Noshiko countered. "We don't demand life-long devotion, Stiles. We want to help you. You can take up our offer and leave when you think we bring nothing to the table. But I do think it is sensible in your situation to exploit all your options."

"You also trained Jordan?" 

Said man then stepped forward from the row of men that were lined up at the wall behind Noshiko and nodded seriously. 

"I have never regretted making this decision and I am sure that neither will you. I was lost before they found me. Now I have a purpose. I have a home," Jordan said passionately. 

Stiles briefly looked at Derek, who he once thought of as his home too. The pack had been home, to be exact. It was where he felt like he belonged. Where else would his weirdness be tolerated than in a pack of werewolves and other supernatural creatures? 

It was not that he intended to trade what he once thought of the place where he belonged for a new one. 

It was not like that at all, he told himself. 

He didn't long to be apart of something, that's what he had sworn to himself. He needed to be independent. 

So he leaned back and gave a crooked smile. "Can't knock til I try it, right? So when do we start?" 

The pack left the small house with varying emotional states. Some felt betrayed, some were anxious for the future, some were furious. But everybody knew that a big change had occurred that night and that nothing would be like it had been before. 

"I can't believe that you're supporting this," Scott exclaimed as he walked to his motorcycle. 

"Why wouldn't I? It is foolish to think that we can handle this one on our own." 

Scott gritted his teeth in anger. "We always have, though. We won every fight that came our way, even when the odds were not in our favour. That's what we are, we are fighters. We don't just - we don't just give up and let someone else fight." 

Now Isaac was about to lose his temper as well. "At what risk, Scott? There were times when we almost didn't make it! Don't you remember the time when Jackson was almost killed? Or Lydia? Or even Stiles, not even two months ago? This is not a joke! War means casualties. And I'm tired of agonizing over who will be the next one." 

Scott looked at him incredulously. The helmet he was just about to put over his head was lowered again. 

"So you just trust them to take care of everything? You believe they'd do it if there wasn't something they wanted out of this? And their interest in Stiles? That's not trustworthy. And I know that's saying something coming from me." 

Isaac looked like he wanted to say more on the subject but then he just turned his back on Scott and walked towards the front porch. 

"I just want it to end. Now that I finally know what's wrong with this goddamn town, I want it to be solved. I've had enough of this shit." 

He didn't even give Scott a chance to respond. He closed the door of the Hale House behind himself before one more word was uttered. 

Derek saw Isaac storming in, heading immediately upstairs, presumably to his room. 

The Alpha shook his head in thought. It was not hard to guess why Isaac was so upset over the dispute whether Stiles' decision was a good one or not. Isaac didn't care that Lydia, Jackson, Erica and Allison didn't believe what the Kitsune had told them about the imbalance in their town. They had never known it any different. They all were well acquainted with the hardships they had had to face in life and they were no longer complaining. For them, that was what life was like. But Isaac, he had experienced a cruelty that no one could just simply accept as their lot in life. And he took the talk about imbalance to heart. 

Derek himself couldn't quite shake off the feeling that some truth must be to it since his own life had once taken such a drastic turn for the worst. Having an explanation for it - something to blame for the mess - felt oddly relieving. 

"You wonder why I so adamantly fight for my freedom from this pack when none of you has any trust in my decisions. How can that still puzzle you?" 

Stiles was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking honestly curious as he posed the question. Derek would've laughed about his ignorance for the answer to his question was quite clear, in his opinion. 

"Why are you questioning your importance for this pack when we worry about every decision you make?" Derek shot back, feeling tired. 

He didn't feel like arguing anymore. They had reached a dead-end. He nor Stiles had changed their stance and none of them was willing to. 

"Being viewed as a burden is not what I desire, thank you," Stiles said, crossing his arms. His voice sounded sour. 

Derek again shook his head and then straightened himself. Leaning against the counter for so long had made his bones become stiff. To him, it felt like he had stood there for an eternity. 

"You do what you want anyway. Haven't you always?" 

The teen stood still. Obviously, he didn't know how their discussion had come to this point. 

Stiles sighed before he raked his fingers through his hair, which had become longer and wilder over the last few months. 

"That's kinda true, I suppose. What's surprising is that you sound resigned, like there is nothing you can do about it. And now you don't even want to anymore." 

"Yes." 

"Don't just say 'Yes'! Wasn't this the whole point of us? That we argue? Especially about how incompetent I am?" Stiles was now agitated enough to leave his spot and walk over to Derek so that he can bore one pointy finger in his chest. 

Derek grabbed his wrist and closed the pointed finger to a fist. 

"I don't agree with some of your choices. This one. But I can be an adult about it," the Alpha then stated calmly. 

"And I'm not is what you're saying?" Stiles challenged. 

"No," Derek said. "I'm saying that I grew up a little." 

Stiles held his breath at the words. He couldn't believe that they had come out of Derek Hale's mouth. 

What Derek said was true. He had grown, as an Alpha, as a brother and uncle, and as a friend; a development Stiles had never thought possible. 

"Just to be clear: There will be no of your usual scheme. You know, baring the teeth, using the claws and the superhuman strength in order to intimidate the poor human?" 

Derek rolled his eyes, but otherwise nodded in agreement. 

"Huh." 

The werewolf flicked him on the head for that with a muttered "Idiot" added. 

Feeling some semblance of normalcy return, Stiles smiled. 

"Now that's the sourwolf I know." 

"Stiles, I want to accompany you." 

"What." 

"To your first training," Derek specified. 

"Absolutely not." 

"Please." 

Now that got Stiles reeling. He felt like the ground he had known for years suddenly turned out to be completely different than he remembered and now he lost his footing. 

"You said please," he deadpanned. 

"I don't trust them. So let me at least drive you."

This was not something that Stiles had expected. He had known from the moment he had made his decision that it would kindle a new conflict with the pack. He had known that and still, he had chosen that path. 

He had thought that he'd lose all the support that had been suspiciously given to him since that night at the graveyard. 

And yet, here they were, with Derek offering to stand by him, even though he didn't approve of his decision. 

This was not going the way he had foreseen and it left Stiles utterly astonished. 

"Fine, I guess. Officially, I'm not allowed to drive anyway," Stiles caved in, too overwhelmed by the turn of events to refuse. 

Derek snorted. "But you still drove yourself to the warehouse, anyway." 

Stiles smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, in which nothing happens except for a lot of talking. Thanks for reading it, anyway.


End file.
